Smoke and Ash
by Icy Mike Molson
Summary: He only came back for a handmaid. But somehow, he ended up with a princess. Now half the realm is searching for him and his new, somewhat unwanted ward...
1. Foreword

**AUTHOR**

About a year ago, my wife decided to run a campaign in Dungeons and Dragons based on the Year of the False Spring, the Tourney at Harrenhal, and Robert's Rebellion. I initially was not up for this; games I had played in the past with canon characters and events had turned out to be… less than satisfying.

I'm glad my wife talked me into it. The characters came to life and she has been doing a wonderful job of letting us play with the events that happen, even altering them if our story allows it. She has done a masterful job of keeping the characters true to themselves while not railroading us through other people's plots.

This story expands on those characters, assuming much of canon and a little of the game. Although there was never a Tristan Lannister or Jocelyn Tyrell mentioned in Martin's world, these events happened long before, and we allowed for some people to have fun and play the character they wanted. So if you don't recognize a character's name, don't suddenly shout that Tristan Lannister isn't real. Just for the sake of this story, he is. Besides, this is all in the past...

And if you're one of my regulars, wondering what happened to _The Rising Fist_, don't be alarmed. I'm still working on that, too…


	2. Taillefer

**TAILLEFER**

_ Delay the wolf and stag. The lions will be at the gate, to offer the stag a gift of dragonflesh. Burn this note. Speak to no one._

He did not need to ask what it meant.

"I'll take this to Ser Tristan," Taillefer Snow said, barely even looking back at the young rider as he folded the parchment. The boy was of an age with him, but he was smallfolk; he could not read the message, as his master no doubt intended. He was dressed in the yellow and black of House Clegane, the three hounds of the house emblazoned on his tunic.

"Perhaps… perhaps I should take it?" the courier suggested. "Ser? Uh, m'lord?"

"I'll handle it from here," Taillefer Snow said, leaving the courier behind. "You don't know where Ser Tristan is. I do."

Taillefer hurried from the western field, crumpling the parchment in his hand. How had it come to this? He had tried to steer Dell Loren to back the prince during this war, but the Green Blade seemed to mistrust the crown prince even more than he had Robert Baratheon. King Aerys evoked no loyalty, but Rhaegar… there had been too many talks, too many discussions. And now he was dead, floating face down in the Trident, his chest smashed in by the Lord of the Stormlands' hammer. Robert was near to death himself, but there were no prizes for almost in this war. So much information, so much sabotage… if Robert Baratheon ever discovered what he had done, he would lose his head if he was lucky.

But the message. That was the worst of it.

Taillefer hurried through the camp of the victors, casting about this way and that for some idea. Rhaegar was dead, but the Lannisters were now marching on King's Landing. Tristan Lannister's job was to delay the rebel army long enough for Lord Tywin to reach the city, and, if he was right, murder the rest of the royal family. And if they did that, it was more than likely that anyone with the princess and her children would be butchered alongside them.

Jocelyn…

Emotions had ruled him for the entire war. Robert Baratheon, Tristan Lannister, Dell Loren, Ned Stark… none of them were likely to forgive all he had done behind their backs for the royal cause. He had an easy way out, for the time being. No one knew. Leaving the rest of the royal family would assure him anonymity, his place whispering in the ear of Dell Loren, who was likely to assume his place as lord of Crackclaw Point in the wake of his brother's death.

Taillefer found himself on the southern edge of the camp, almost in a run despite not having a goal to reach. The camp here was marked by a white winged chalice on a pink field. House Hersy, one of the closest allies of Arryn of the Vale. A groom happened to be leading a palfrey in front of him, and suddenly Taillefer knew what he needed to do.

"You there!" the bastard called out, hurrying to the groom. The boy turned on him, confused. "Give me the horse!"

"This… this horse is for Ser Hersy," the groom began. "He-"

"This is a matter of life or death!" Taillefer exclaimed, grabbing the boy. "Lord Baratheon's life may depend on it! I need a horse!"

"Horse… Baratheon…" the boy stammered. Taillefer grabbed the reins and got as far as one foot in the stirrup before the boy tried to stop him. Without even a heartbeat's pause, Taillefer drew his short sword and slammed the pommel down on the boy's head, driving him to the ground. Blood was already flowing from a gash almost directly between his eyes as Taillefer swung up into the saddle, spurring the palfrey out of the Hersy camp and to the Kingsroad.

He would have at least an hour before anyone knew what had happened, and without the knowledge he had, they would at least be somewhat confused at first. If they took him for a loyalist, though, they would know he headed south, for King's Landing. The question was, would they care enough to follow him? Taillefer did not care to find out if his former friends, Ser Dell and Ser Tristan, would be among the first to try and track him down. Digging his heels into his horse, Taillefer rode for all he was worth, pushing himself and the horse as they sprinted down the road. Although it was dark, he pushed his horse at a gallop for as long as the creature would bear it, trusting in his eyes and the luck of the gods to reach Castle Darry without breaking his horse's legs or his own neck.

Luck stayed with him, at least for the first leg of the trip.

No signs of pursuit arose behind him as he nearly leapt off his horse at the gates of Castle Darry. A pair of crossbowmen leveled their weapon at him as he raced up to the wooden gate.

"The prince is dead!" Taillefer shouted. "I need a horse! The prince is dead!"

"Who are you?" one of the crossbowmen shouted down.

"I need a horse!" Taillefer only shouted in reply. "Open the gate, I need a horse! Prince Rhaegar has fallen!"

The gates opened slightly, and a man wearing rusted ring mail, far too old to be part of the garrison, pushed his way out.

"Who are you?" he demanded. "You were there?"

"I was," Taillefer answered. "I did what I could, we all did, but Lord Baratheon smashed him on the Trident! I need a horse, I must reach King's Landing!"

There was a moment of silence as the old man looked back to the others behind him. Castle Darry was only manned by a handful of old men and boys too young to take part in the battle of the Trident, but each one was ashen at the news.

"Bryam," the old man said. "Get him a horse."

"Jayce?" one of the boys, probably the youngest, asked.

"Do it!" the old man ordered. The boy rushed off to the stables. "We'll take your horse in, give you a new one," Jayce said. "Get to King's Landing quick as you can. But I don't know what good it will do."

"Thank you," Taillefer said. Within moments the boy was leading a chestnut mare from the stables. The boy was still buckling the saddle as he walked it out, but Taillefer was in no mood to wait.

"It doesn't equal that horse, but it'll get you there," Jayce said. "Seven see you safely."

"It will," Taillefer said. Bryam stood back, and the bastard pulled himself up into the saddle. He started to the gate, where another boy was leading the palfrey in, then turned. "Good luck," he said. If the rebels decided to storm Castle Darry, they would need all the luck they could get.

"And to you," Jayce said. Taillefer nodded, then wheeled his horse and bolted through the gates once more.

He rode all night and into morning. By the time the sun was rising, he had passed through Lord Harroway's town, and the road to Harrenhal snaked away to the southwest. He was exhausted, saddle sore, with blisters forming on his thighs and rump, and the horse was lathered and panting.

Jocelyn…

He spurred the horse again, pushing to the south. There was a town somewhere just ahead, he thought. Someplace where he could trade his horse for a fresh one. An inn, a market town, someplace.

He came upon it only a half hour later, as the sun beamed down merrily on his ride. It took only a few moments of haggling with a freerider to change horses; he was going nowhere, and the horse that Castle Darry had given him was better than his own. Taillefer took the gray gelding and once again hurried on his way, setting the horse to a gallop before he had even left the tiny area of the town. He had never even gotten the name of the man who had his old horse, or the name of the town he left so quickly.

Sometime during the day he must have dozed in the saddle. He woke with a start; the sun was higher in the sky and his horse was grazing along the side of the road. The day was a beautiful spring day, the air full of birdsong and life.

Jocelyn…

He dug his heels into the gelding. It whinnied in protest but once again raced off, careening south down the Kingsroad, weaving through the light traffic. Soldiers rode north, too slow to catch the man racing south. Here and there smallfolk brought goods to market, or fled south for the perceived safety of King's Landing. It would do no good to spread the news here, he knew. Although it might choke the road, the last thing that concerned him was delaying an entire army. One man, riding swiftly and changing horses, could easily outdistance infantry and even knights.

But where was the Lannister army?

If they planned on being in King's Landing before Baratheon's force, they would have to be on the march already. Casterly Rock was much farther from the capitol than the battlefield; Tywin Lannister must have been preparing for just such an event. The enmity between the Lannisters and Targaryens went deep; first Tywin and King Aerys, and then Tristan and Rhaegar. It had been impossible to mend the rift; Tristan operated without the open consent of his family as one of Ser Dell Loren's household knights, but it was clear that he had been feeding his family with information. Perhaps he had underestimated the Brazen Lion. Or perhaps the bastard had taught him too well.

He and his horse were both near to dropping by midday. Slowed to nothing more than a trot, Taillefer forced the exhausted gelding to keep moving, watching the sides of the road warily. Here and there camps of freeriders and sellswords gathered on the sides of the road; they would be without a war soon enough. With drooping eyes the bastard finally found what he was looking for; a spirited young stallion, tethered to a tree while his hedge knight master relieved himself against a tree. Taillefer dropped off of his gelding and led the spent horse to the tree. The hedge knight looked back over his shoulder, but the exhausted bastard apparently proved no threat to him, and he went back about his business.

Taillefer untethered the stallion and jumped up into the saddle, wheeling the horse south even as the hedge knight turned with an angry shout. The stallion bucked for only a moment before it careened down the road, only half following the bastard's instructions as it raced away. Taillefer could not even hazard a glance back as he tried to keep the stallion under control. He had plenty of spirit and strength; he wondered if that alone would get him to King's Landing.

The sun was setting by the time Taillefer finally stopped. He had ridden all night and all day; he could scarcely keep his eyes open. Sow's Horn stood off to his east. He had made the Crownlands.

He must have dozed again in the saddle. When he woke this time, the sun had set and only a trace of light remained on the Kingsroad. Once again the bastard put his heels to the stallion's flanks, urging him on. The horse had covered more ground than he could have hoped, but he would still not reach King's Landing before the next evening. He was too tired to continue, but he dared not risk an inn. Taillefer dropped off of the stallion and pulled him to a tree, tethered the horse, and then climbed up to the lowest branch. He would rest for a few hours. He fell fast asleep as soon as he shut his eyes.

He was in the capitol then, the city in flames as red cloaked Lannisters led the Westermen into King's Landing. Wildfire burned in the streets, but it was not enough. Taillefer raced through the streets, sprinting up to the Red Keep, but Tywin Lannister and his men were already there. Each westerman he cut down was replaced by two more, until they dragged him away from the Keep. Even as they did, Tywin Lannister tore Jocelyn's dress down the front and gave her to his men, all while he watched helplessly…

The nightmare woke him with a start, and he nearly fell from the tree. It was nearly dawn; too much time had passed. The stallion had to be well rested now. With scarcely a moment to make water, the bastard leapt back into the saddle, ignoring blisters rubbed raw by too many hours in the saddle, and spurred the horse once more to the south.

The sleep had reinvigorated him, but only for a while. As the sun climbed into the sky once again both horse and rider slowed, but as the day passed and the shadows began to grow long, the bastard could see the great city before him. The sight woke him once more, and Taillefer kicked the stallion to a gallop. Even then it was another hour of hard riding before the stallion collapsed, only half a mile from the gates of King's Landing. Bruised and battered from the tumbling horse, sore and pained by each step, Taillefer nonetheless ran the rest of the way to the city.

The massive portcullis of the Dargon Gate was closed as Taillefer Snow stumbled up to the city walls, but the bastard lurched to the side. A postern door remained partially opened, but four Gold Cloaks moved to block his path as he reached it.

"What are you about, then?" one of them asked. Two others behind him lowered crossbows.

"I need to enter the city," Taillefer said. "I have news for the Red Keep."

"You can give us the news," the Gold Cloak said. Taillefer shook his head.

"I have news for the Red Keep," the bastard said again. "I rode from the Trident…"

"Where's your horse?" another of the Gold Cloaks asked.

"Dead," Taillefer answered. "Let me in."

"Fancy blade for a courier," the lead Gold Cloak noted, looking down at the short sword on his hip. Taillefer twirled his fingers slightly, mumbled something under his breath. "What was that?"

"You know me," Taillefer said, looking back up. His charm had to work, or he would be murdered on the spot. "You can trust me. I have urgent news for the Red Keep."

The Gold Cloak paused a long moment. Taillefer tensed, readying for a fight.

"I'll let you kin," the Gold Cloak finally said. "Be quick about it. The Keep'll want your news."

"Thank you," Taillefer said. The bastard hurried in, past the Gold Cloak and his three confused companions.

Taillefer knew enough of King's Landing to be lost before the four watchmen could question what had happened. Taking twists and turns, his goal so close, the bastard's strength renewed. Around Rhaenys' Hill towards the Old Gate, then back into the heart of the city. Off the main streets, but always moving towards Aegon's High Hill and the Red Keep towering over the city.

It was past dark as Taillefer limped up to the gates of the Red Keep. He had been here a handful of times, but he wondered if any of the guards he knew would still be present. So much had changed. So many people were dead, he had no idea who to expect at the gates of the Keep. As he approached, two Gold Cloaks moved forward. Behind them were a pair of soldiers dressed in the colors of House Targaryen.

"I have urgent business with Maester Cedric," Taillefer said. He could only hope that his friend would see him. "I must be allowed entry."

The two Gold Cloaks moved forward, ready to turn him away, but one of the Targearyen soldiers moved forward.

"I've seen you before," the man said. "I'll take you there."

"Thank you," Taillefer said. The guard hurried in through the gate, leading the bastard through the outer keep.

Taillefer's head was swimming by the time they reached the quarters of the Grand Maester. Hoping that Pycelle himself would not be there, Taillefer stumbled into the room. Standing on the far side, Maester Cedric turned in surprise.

"This one said-"

"Taillefer?" Cedric cut off the guard.

"Bet you never thought you'd see me again," Taillefer said, smiling faintly. The master moved towards him, but it seemed like each step carried him farther away, until the world was washed in darkness.


	3. Jocelyn

**JOCELYN**

The bastard was laid out on Cedric's small bed, sound asleep.

"He's bruised, blistered, and exhausted," the maester said quietly. "But he'll be fine. I…" Cedric paused a moment. "I thought you'd… like to know. That he was here, I mean."

Jocelyn barely nodded. She still wasn't sure if the tears nagging at the corners of her eyes were from joy or grief. A year ago the bastard had told her that he would fight for Robert Baratheon. Their last meeting had nearly torn her apart. But even Elia had spoken of the Snow of Standfast once or twice. Rhaegar had forgiven him, or else he had actually condoned the bastard's choice. And from time to time, Cedric would suddenly interrupt Rhaegar with his wife, with the cryptic message of "Flurries in the north"…

"He... never fought for Baratheon," Jocelyn said quietly, turning to Cedric. The maester said nothing for a long moment.

"He did," Cedric answered at last.

"Flurries in the north," Jocelyn said. Cedric smiled, a resigned expression. When had the young maester become so jaded?

"He… sent reports," Cedric explained. "It was how Connington knew that Robert was at Stoney Sept, or how the Dornishmen were able to nearly outflank the rebel forces. He…" Cedric stopped. "He risked a great deal to let us know what was happening."

Jocelyn looked at her bastard again. She wanted to slap him, to kiss him, to hold him close and call him a bastard. Too many emotions roiled within her.

"Who knows he's here?" the noble asked.

"Me, and the guards who admitted him," Cedric answered.

"Bring him to my chambers," Jocelyn said. "And don't tell anyone he was here. Especially not the king."

"Yes, my lady," Cedric said. Jocelyn hurried out into the courtyard, where the Targaryen soldier paced in front of the maester's quarters. As she emerged, the soldier turned to her.

"He was never here," Jocelyn commanded, finding her authority. She was a rose of Highgarden, no shrinking violet.

"Y-yes, m'lady," the soldier said.

"Return to your post," Jocelyn instructed. "Not a word, clear?"

"Yes m'lady," the soldier repeated. Satisfied, the noble turned back, looking up at Maegor's Holdfast. In the darkness it was nothing more than a black outline against the sky, a castle within a castle. With six of seven Kingsguard away at war, only Ser Jaime was left to man the drawbridge, but King Aerys kept him close to his side at all times. All that remained now was the drawbridge, the iron spikes, and the darkness. Jocelyn hurried into the Holdfast, suddenly feeling insecure outside the inner walls. Behind her, she thought she heard the sound of Taillefer's voice, but she could hesitate no more as she rushed up to her suites.

Her mind was swirling as she closed the doors to her chambers. Taillefer had been a spy all this time? How could she have let her emotions blind her so badly? What had she missed in their last meeting? How much had the tears kept her from seeing what he had said?

Jocelyn paced back and forth in her room, her plain green and white dress billowing around her with each turn. She had only a few moments left, but she could think of nothing to do to prepare for his arrival.

The doors opened slowly again. Jocelyn turned to the faint creak, but instead of Maester Cedric, only Taillefer entered.

He was certainly bruised, his hair matted, and he had likely lost weight since they had last seen each other. He looked stronger; perhaps the war had hardened him physically, or perhaps it was just the lack of food that made his muscles stand out more. He walked gingerly, somewhat bowlegged; he had never been a truly capable rider. His clothes were stained and dusty from the road. Those gray Bolton eyes were exhausted, but there was a light of happiness in them that she had seen only on rare occasions. With slow, guarded steps, she crossed the Myrish carpets to him, uncertain how to react to his presence, so sudden, once again in her life.

She slapped him.

She kissed him.

She threw her arms around him in a tight embrace that nearly toppled him.

"You bastard," she choked out. "You stupid lying bastard."

"The prince… didn't want anyone to know," Taillefer said quietly. She separated from him. "He said he would explain to you, once the war was done." Taillefer stopped, and looked to the ground. "He said a lot of things, about when the war was done."

"What happened?" Jocelyn asked, wiping a tear away. Taillefer looked to the ground.

"Baratheon…" the bastard started. Jocelyn's breath caught. "Prince Rhaegar is dead," he said bluntly. "Prince Lewyn of Dorne as well. Baratheon's army prevailed at the Trident, and Robert himself killed the prince."

"No," Jocelyn whispered.

"We don't have time," Taillefer said, looking up. His exhaustion was gone. "We have to get out of here. We can take a ship to Pentos, or Braavos, and-"

"What are you talking about?" Jocelyn demanded, pulling away suddenly.

"The Lannisters are on their way here," Taillefer explained. "_To offer the stag a gift of dragonflesh_. We have to leave the keep, we have to leave King's Landing."

"What does..." Jocelyn stopped. "No. The… King Aerys?"

"Not just him," Taillefer said. "With children, the claim to the throne still goes to Targaryens. Do you think Tywin Lannister will suffer that insult once again?"

"No," Jocelyn said. "Elia… we have to warn Elia!"

"We don't have time!" Taillefer said, grabbing her arm. "I came back for you! We have to go, before the Lannisters arrive!"

"He was your _friend_, Taillefer!" Jocelyn exclaimed, pulling away. "How can you leave your friend's family to die?"

Taillefer snarled in frustration, in anger, in embarrassment. He knew she was right; the look in his eyes told her that much.

"We have to move quickly," Taillefer said. "If the Lannisters are on their way, they could…"

The bastard stopped. Slowly he turned to the window.

"What?" Jocelyn asked. She tried to force herself to turn, but a greenish glow had already begun to throw itself against the far wall. "What is it?" she whispered.

Somewhere below, in the Holdfast, a tortured shriek that could only be the king's drifted up to them.

"We have to go," Taillefer said, his voice eerily calm.


	4. Taillefer 2

**TAILLEFER**

Damn her for being right.

Taillefer hurried up the steps two and three at a time, rather than down as he should have done. Long gone was the exhaustion of his ride to the capitol, the soreness of being on horseback for so long, and the blisters left by the ride. He could only hope that Maester Cedric had listened to him and decided to flee; even the bastard did not think that the Lannisters would have been so close on his heels. How long had he slept in Cedric's chambers?

It didn't matter now.

The royal chambers occupied two of the higher floors of Maegor's Holdfast, but even Jocelyn could not tell for sure where the prince's family would be. The top floor would have to b the place to start.

Outside the fighting was coming rapidly closer. Wildfire mixed with normal fire, setting a hellish glow of green and red to the skies over King's Landing. Gold Cloaks and royalist soldiers clashed with the crimson clad Lannisters and their westermen allies; no doubt there were Cleganes down there, ripping through their foes with reckless abandon. Taillefer stopped for only a moment at one of the arrow slits in the staircase. Already the fighting had swept through half the city.

"Someone opened the gates," the bastard said.

"Seven hells," Jocelyn breathed. He had told her to wait in her chambers. But there was no way he could turn her back now. Never had he heard the underlying terror in her voice that was present now.

"We have to move," the bastard said, taking her hand. He would not leave her behind, not while the fighting was raging in the streets and even up to the gates of the Red Keep. From the looks of it, time was running out far too quickly. With shoulder lowered he burst through the doors of the royal chambers.

"Elia!" Taillefer called out. Jocelyn echoed his call, hurrying to the left and he moved right. He found Elia Martell in the nursery.

"What is happening?" she asked, looking up in fear. Jocelyn bumped into him from behind as she skidded to a stop.

"Your Grace, we must leave," Taillefer said.

"You… are Taillefer Snow," Elia said.

"I am," the bastard answerd. This was no time for introductions. "Your Grace, we have to-"

"Where is Rhaenys?" Jocelyn blurted out. Gods be damned, only one child was with the princess.

"She… upstairs," Elia said. "I think."

"Wait here," Taillefer said, already turning back to the stairs. "Don't go anywhere!"

"Taillefer!" Jocelyn called, following him up the steps. She nearly tripped on the hem of her dress.

"I'll be back in a moment," Taillefer said. "Wait with the princess."

"We know where she is!" Jocelyn argued. "We have to find Rhaenys, the quicker the better!"

"Okay, okay!" Taillefer said. He had no time to change the girl's mind now. Strangely, it actually made him feel better to have her with him. "Where would she hide?"

"Rhaenys?" Jocelyn called. There was no answer.

"Not fast enough," Taillefer said. "We're not moving fast enough."

"Split up," Jocelyn proposed. Taillefer growled, but she was right. They had no time to waste.

He hurried left, his rose going right. He hated to leave her. He had lost her for too long, had come too far, to lose her like this. He needed to find the little princess and-

A squeal of terror. From behind the doors.

He rushed to the doors, but they were locked. Big, iron bound, no doubt the prince's chambers. They were locked.

He slipped out a pair of picks. Inside a tiny voice shrieked in terror, louder and louder. The tumblers gave way, and the bastard shoved the doors open.

The man holding princess Rhaenys up by her arm was a big man, clad in a red surcoat over a chain shirt. A long sword was belted to his hip, but his shield, showing the black manticore on a red field, the arms of House Lorch.

The westermen were already in the Red Keep. How had they gotten her so quickly? How had they gotten into Maegor's Holdfast? Had Ser Jaime Lannister of the Kingsguard let them in?

"Shut up, girl!" Lorch demanded. The girl only screamed louder as he held her over the bed. The knight drew his sword then. Taillefer's mind raced, coming through with the charm he would need. Words and sword moved too slowly. It felt like an eternity.

The knight thrust his sword forward, the blade sliding through Rhaenys Targaryen's gut. But instead of the girl fountaining blood, a gash tore open beneath Lorch's chain shirt, and the knight screamed in pain. Taillefer drew his short sword and drove forward, catching the knight as he reeled backwards. More blood poured down the knight's side as Taillefer struck just beneath the chain links, opening a vicious gash across the knight's hip.

And then the long sword whistled back on him, crashing into his side.

The force of the impact lifted Taillefer from his feet and sent him reeling across the room. He felt the blood before the pain; the knight's blade had torn through his leather jerkin and sliced him open just below the ribs. Taillefer stumbled up against princess Elia's dressing table, Lorch advancing on him with far too much speed. The bastard reached behind him, finding a dish of cosmetic powder, and hurled it forward.

Lorch's blade slammed into the wall just above Taillefer's head as he ducked and tumbled away. The knight cursed and swung blindly as he tried to wipe the white powder from his face, blinded by the surprise weapon. Behind him, Rhaenys was shrieking as only a child could. More screaming echoed through his mind, over the roar of his blood pouring through the gash in his side. A roar from somewhere, maybe from Lorch as he found his sight and turned on the bastard. Jocelyn screaming his name.

Lorch's heavy blade slammed down into the stone floor, but by the time it landed Taillefer had already rushed back to the dressing table. Small plates and bowls of cosmetics, jewelry, and needles were strewn across the table. Taillefer grabbed a handful and hurled them at the knight. Lorch screamed in pain as the bastard's charm sped them to crossbow bolt velocity, striking his mail, his shield, and his unprotected face, arms and legs. Still the knight thundered forward, his blade catching Taillefer just along the shoulder this time. Jocelyn screamed. Rhaenys was somehow caught in one ungodly long shriek of terror. Roars, shouts, too much noise to discover what was happening.

"Jocelyn!" Taillefer shouted. "Get her and get out!"

"Taillefer!" Jocelyn exclaimed.

"Do it!" the bastard ordered. The knight was on him again; Taillefer blocked the sword, but the force of the impact was enough to drive him to one knee. He was bleeding; somehow a cut had opened over his eye, dripping blood into his vision. Another slash tore his leather jerkin open, but left only a faint wisp of blood on his skin beneath. He was running out of tricks, and Lorch seemed to be getting stronger.

A sudden shower of fire, sparks, and melted wax crashed across Lorch's back. Behind him, Jocelyn Tyrell drew her candelabra back to strike again; if she had been taller, the candelabra would have struck more than the shield strapped to Lorch's back. The knight turned on her with a half blind sweep of his blade; somehow Jocelyn parried the worst of it with her makeshift weapon, but the soft bronze was not near enough to save her. The long sword smashed through the candelabra and nicked Jocelyn's arm, but the force of the blow threw her back towards the door.

Taillefer launched himself forward, drawing the dagger that Rhaegar had given him so long before. The blade tore into Lorch's thigh just below the hip, tearing down almost to the knee. The knight screamed in pain and turned on the bastard, bringing his sword down in a crashing arc that chopped the bastard's skull in half down to his neck.

Or, it would have.

Taillefer had no time to thank any gods for the charm. Lorch bellowed in agony and fell backward, a terrible gash struck down the center of his chest. Taillefer stumbled to his feet, searching quickly for Jocelyn, but the young Tyrell had managed her feet, though she stumbled, dizzy from her landing against the prince's sturdy bed. Lorch was staggering back to his own feet, but Taillefer wasted no more time. He could not hope to defeat the knight, certainly not in the time he had left. He was drenched in his own blood, and even his rose had been cut just under her shoulder, turning the sleeve of her dress red with her blood. Scooping up the screeching Rhaenys in his arms, Taillefer half ran and half fell through the doors, carrying the squealing child in his arms.

"Taillefer!" Jocelyn called, racing along behind him.

"We have to go," the bastard said. The steps were moving as he reached them. He stopped for a moment, trying to steady himself.

"Give her to me," Jocelyn said. Taillefer waved her off irritably. "You're hurt too badly, Taillefer! Give her to me!"

"I'll be fine," Taillefer said, taking his first steps down the staircase. He leaned against the wall for stability, wincing as he realized trhe trail of blood he was leaving. Rhaenys was still shrieking, especially when Jocelyn pulled her from his grasp. Then she quieted down; perhaps she knew his rose well enough to be comfortable.

He made it most of the way down before he stumbled. He still had to get to Elia and Aegon. Struggling to his feet, he pushed open the doors to Aegon's nursery…

"The Snow of Standfast," Gregor Clegane snarled. "Sandor told me of you."

Taillefer froze. He had barely defeated Lorch, and even now the other knight was likely on his feet. He had nothing left; no charms, no surprise, nothing to help him defeat Gregor Clegane. And behind him, lying on the ground, was what might have been Aegon once. The babe had been shattered, his head nothing more than a pulp of blood, skull fragments, and brains. And Elia…

He did not want to think of Elia's last moments. He should have brought the princess with him.

"I always knew you were a monster," Taillefer said, holding his blade in front of him. Gregor Clegane buckled his sword belt on again. From above, Lorch screamed in pain and rage as he tried to follow the princess on his torn leg. Behind him, Jocelyn's breath caught in terror.

"Go," Taillefer said. "I've got enough left for one more."

"Don't do this," Jocelyn whispered. "We have to run."

Gregor roared in bloodlust and drove forward. Taillefer drew and threw one dagger, then turned and shoved Jocelyn down the steps. He had one last charm at his disposal. On this one, it might even work.

Taillefer ran halfway down the steps, then fell the other half, his wounds stealing the nimbleness from him. Above, Gregor's bloodlust turned to shock and alarm as he hit the greased steps that the bastard had left behind; the huge man was crashing down the stairs as Jocelyn pulled the bastard to his feet. Gregor slammed into the bottom wall just as the pair and the young princess scrambled to the ground floor.

"No!" Taillefer exclaimed, grabbing Jocelyn. "Not the throne room! Aerys… it was him we heard…"

"What do we do?" Jocelyn asked, searching desperately for a way out. Taillefer tried to think of something, but he was so tired…

"You have to go," Taillefer said. "I'll… I'll make sure they don't follow…"

"We're almost out," Jocelyn said, a sudden steel in her voice. She pulled Taillefer to his feet; he never remembered sitting down. "I thought I lost you once," she said, dragging him behind her. "I won't go through that again."


	5. Jocelyn 2

**JOCELYN**

The docks were crowded with panicked smallfolk, all trying to escape the Lannister troops.

By now the Lannisters must have known that Rhaenys Targaryen had escaped the Holdfast. They would be searching for her everywhere, and the violet eyes of Targaryens and Dorne were far too noticeable, even in the glow of wildfire and burning buildings. Jocelyn had taken her nightgown from her and clothed her in a battered piece of canvas, then wrapped the sleeve of her dress, still soaked with blood, around Rhaenys' head low enough to cover her eyes. None looked twice as Jocelyn, bloodied and disheveled, carried the sobbing princess in her good arm, or held onto Taillefer Snow as he struggled to keep up with her. Ash, soot and blood covered their clothes; only Taillefer's beautiful short sword was any obvious hint to wealth, and that could be easily explained. Jocelyn had already worked that out.

Along the docks, ships with the banners of noble houses, Lyseni traders, and even the smallest fishing vessels were swarmed with people trying to find their way out of King's Landing. Trampled bodies lay along the wharfs, while some of the smallest vessels had already capsized in the middle of the Blackwater Rush. Behind the crowds, the Lannister armies were sweeping through the city, taking anything they wanted. Men were put to death, women raped, wealth of any sort taken from the citizens.

Taillefer fell to his knees, nearly dragging Jocelyn and Rhaenys down with him. The bastard has risked all and more to reach her, and then had tried so hard to save Elia and her children. She had almost expected to see him give up when Lorch had appeared, but he had fought to the bitter end, nearly dying in the process. Now he could barely walk; his breeches and tunic were both drenched in blood. She had done what she could in the time she had to staunch the bleeding, but Taillefer was pale and growing weaker with every step. With all the force in her diminutive frame, she pulled Taillefer to his feet and launched herself forward, finding the front of the push for ships.

In front of her was a Lyseni galleas, its hull striped purple and pink, with sailors holding off the crowds at the edge of the dock. The Lyseni were still there; all she needed was to get them aboard.

"Please!" she screamed. "Passage for my husband and my daughter! Please!"

"Everyone wants passage!" one of the sailors shouted back. "Swim if you must! We set off!"

"I have money!" Jocelyn screamed. "I have money!"

One of the sailors grabbed her and dragged her forward. Jocelyn held on to Taillefer with all her strength, pulling the dying bastard through the throngs with her.

"Your money, or get away!" the sailor demanded. Jocelyn fumbled for a pouch. Inside were gemstones; Taillefer had been carrying moonstones when she tried to treat his wounds.

"This will get one of you on board," the sailor said.

"It is a fortune in gems!" Jocelyn countered in desperation.

"And behind you is a fortune in everything else!" the sailor challenged.

"Take the blade," Taillefer said from behind her. He held his short sword up; the weapon was exquisite.

"Where'd you find that?" the sailor asked. His eyes never left the blade.

"We found it on the Street of Steel," Jocelyn lied. "My husband… he tried to protect us…"

Jocelyn found herself breaking down into tears far more easily than she would have thought. It was supposed to be an act, but suddenly the tears were for real.

"Take the blade and the stones and let them aboard!" the Lyseni shouted. The sailor ripped the pouch from her hands and stole the sword from Taillefer. Jocelyn hurried up the gangplank, slipping on the slick boards but somehow managing to find her way to the deck. As she reached the gunwales, another Lyseni glared at the trio.

"He'll be dead in no time," the sailor said. "We should throw him over now."

"No!" Jocelyn shrieked. With the princess in one hand she drew Taillefer's Valyrian dagger, ready to defend her bastard to the death.

"Wait until he dies, and get her aboard!" the apparent captain shouted. "We cast off! Now!"

The last of the lines were cast off, and Jocelyn felt the galleas lurch forward. Beneath them, the desperate throngs of smallfolk lining the docks screamed and cursed. One even caught a line and was dragged by the galleas until the crew cut the rope loose, but there was nothing she could do for him. All around her the desperate that had managed to scrape enough money together lined the deck, watching as the oars put out and the galleas rowed away from King's Landing. Others on the docks fell into the water or were pushed to the ground as what few ships remained were swarmed by the frantic crowds. Behind those crowds, the lines of Lannister soldiers grew closer.

"We… we made it," Jocelyn said, turning to Taillefer. The bastard opened his eyes; he was lying on the deck, his side still a lurid red in the glow of King's Landing. He hesitated for a long moment, then smiled.

"Jocelyn," he said. "I… I had a wonderful dream… about you… us…"

"It won't be a dream," Jocelyn promised. She pushed his hair back with a bloody hand; was it her blood, or someone else's? "We… we're going to make it. You'll see."

"I'm glad you'll make it," Taillefer said. His voice was weak, his eyes barely open. "How's the girl?"

"She… she's fine," Jocelyn said. Beside her, leaning her head on the noble's lap, the disguised princess was sobbing, half asleep. "We'll all be fine, Taillefer," she said, blinking away tears. "We'll all be fine."

"Of course," Taillefer said, a wistful smile on his face. He looked up at her. "I… I did a good thing, didn't I?"

"You did," Jocelyn said, kissing his brow. "You were wonderful, Taillefer Snow."

"For once," Taillefer said. He closed his eyes again.

"No," Jocelyn said. She pushed Rhaenys aside. "Wait with… your father," she commanded. Jocelyn jumped to her feet as the blind princess clutched Taillefer's hand, and the noble scrambled up the ladder to the captain at the helm.

"My… my husband is dying," she said. "You must help him!"

"We have enough to do," the captain said. He turned to his first mate. "Get us out of here. Get us to Lys."

"You must help him!" Jocelyn demanded, grabbing the captain's arm. "You must! I have money!"

"We have your blade and your gems," the first mate said. The captain nodded.

"What you have won't help," he said. Jocelyn snapped the white fawn pendant from her neck.

"This," she said, anger rising in her voice. "Is this enough to make you lift a finger while a good man dies? Is this enough to buy someone to help my husband? Is this enough to pay your way to the Seven Hells?"

The captain took the pendant. Irritably he waved to his first mate.

"Put these three in a cabin," he said. "Send Varro to them. Keep her husband alive, if he can."

The first mate nodded, a look of disgust on his face.

He was even more disgusted as Jocelyn dragged him down the steps to the dying Taillefer.


	6. Varro

**VARRO TIZRANO**

The wounded had been able to take up half of one partially filled cargo hold. _Merry Milena_ had put to see in the chaos of the sacking of King's Landing without near enough cargo to make the venture profitable. But Naimerio had not been the captain of _Merry Milena_ for so long because he could not find the profit in any situation.

It had cost money to board the ship at the docks. In the chaos the refugees had tried gold and gems, silk and brocade, pies and cakes, anything they could lay their hands upon. One desperate man had offered up his daughter, a fair haired little girl of eight, to be sold to the slave trainers of Lys. More had simply tried to storm aboard; a bloody instant later, three refugees and one sailor had been slashed, and the more desperate moved on to less well guarded ships. Honest coin and stolen goods, anything was accepted for passage.

The girl with the opal pendant, a blinded child, and a dying husband had persuaded Captain Naimerio to send Varro to work as a surgeon. He had trained in Tyrosh once to be a barber, but work in the city had been scarce. Ships were constantly in need of one to tend wounds and cut hair, though, and Varro had found himself easy passage on _Merry Milena_ almost seven years ago. Since then he had honed his skill as a healer and surgeon, treating injuries caused by pirates from the Stepstones, Ironborn reavers off the coast of the Reach, and a thousand day to day chores that went awry aboard the ship.

But rarely all at once.

Easily more than twenty wounded lay inside the hold of _Merry Milena_, with everything from small gashes to shattered bones and crushed bodies. One man had been impaled on a spear so that it had burst out his back. An old woman had been trampled, and half her bones shifted and bulged at grotesque angles. A Gold Cloak that had sold his sword and mail for passage had been slashed in four places, from thigh to face. A boy with ginger hair had lost half his jaw and had his ribs caved by a heavy blow; there was little Varro could do for him but ease the pain and wait for him to die, the injuries were so great. Two young girls had been so badly defiled by invading troops that Varro did not know if they would live, much less ever have the chance to bear their own children. Captain Naimerio, in his bid for more coin and trade goods, claimed Varro's healing prowess as legendary. The truth was far less incredible; Varro doubted he could rival a novice maester at the healing arts. It did not stop him from trying, however; no one deserved to suffer as these poor souls did. Especially not the children. He would have helped even if Naimerio was not collecting money for the blood mopped up from the decks.

The sun was dropping to the distant western shoreline when Varro Tizrano left the hold and its wounded, making his way to the main deck and the tiny cabin set in the stern castle. For all of the previous night and day, he had tended to the wounded, promising the girl with the opal pendant that he would return. It had been hours since he had seen to her and her tiny family, cleaning out the worst of the young man's wounds and making certain that nothing beneath the skin would rupture and poison him from the inside. When he had finally finished with all he could do, he had turned to the girl that had brought him.

"Can you sew?" he had asked her. Pale as milk, the girl had nodded without a sound. "Then sew his injuries closed.

She had looked ready to retch. "I… can't," she had managed, queasily.

"You have to," Varro had told her. "Or his wounds will not close."

He had given her thread and a needle, then left without saying a word more. If she loved her husband, she would do what had to be done.

Varro stopped at the tiny door to the converted sail locker, candle, ointments, and fresh bandages in hand. Inside the room would be dark, especially as the sun sank, so the candle would be a necessity. Carefully he pulled the door open, edging his way inside and closing it again behind him.

The young man was exactly where Varro had left him, unconscious on a rough straw pallet. His wounds had been vicious, delivered by a heavy blade. Most of his clothing had been soaked with blood and unwearable; the girl had been forced to pay a stag for the pallet and another stag for the threadbare blanket that covered her husband. The girl herself had collapsed in her vigil over her husband, her head in her arms, propped up on the edge of the pallet. The child had fallen asleep with her head in her mother's lap, the bloody bandages removed from her head. The girl had acted nothing short of bizarre when Varro had first offered to treat the child's wounds; his charity had met with nothing but vicious rebukes as she had defensively put herself between Varro and the child.

The room was barely large enough to hold the three of them comfortably, but they had wedged themselves so close together that Varro had no trouble moving around the Girl with the Pendant. Silently he knelt next to her and her sleeping child, setting the candle close to them and gently brushing the child's hair away from her face.

No injuries marred the little girl's angelic face.

The Girl with the Pendant suddenly moved, forcing Varro to back away a foot or so. She blinked and looked at her husband, a trace of hope on her face dissolving into sadness as she realized that he had not been the one to disturb her sleep. For a dreamy moment she gazed on the half dead man beside her, but she quickly became aware of the new light source in the room. Slowly she turned, her golden brown eyes going wide as she saw the barber in the room.

"You'll be relieved to know she is unharmed, my lady," Varro said, standing. The girl had to be a noble; her dress, a rich green with patterned with delicate vines, was of the finest brocade, at least before it had been destroyed in the sacking. Her hair, though disheveled now, had been brushed and meticulously braided, and touches of fragrance had survived the smoke and ash of King's Landing. And her slippers, torn and spattered with blood, had once been a soft, pastel green studded with tourmalines. For her part, the girl stumbled into a defensive position, pushing her child behind her as she stumbled on one leg that had obviously fallen asleep beneath her.

"Stay away from her," the Girl with the Pendant warned. She fumbled, produced the dagger she had wielded on the deck the previous night. Varro put up his hands in a gesture of peace.

"You are safe here," he tried to explain. "No one here is going to harm you or your child."

"Just stay away from her," she ordered. Varro hesitated a long moment.

"She is not your daughter," he concluded. The Girl with the Pendant was far too young to have given birth to the little one peering out from behind her ruined skirts, unless she had been with child at thirteen or even younger. The look of fright that passed over her face told Varro that he was correct.

"Leave us alone," she tried, advancing half a step and trying to force her leg awake. Varro sighed.

"I had come to see to your husband, my lady," he informed her. "But, if you wish to let his wounds fester…"

The Girl with the Pendant hesitated for a long moment, the dagger still in her hand.

"See to him," she finally directed, her voice wary. She gave a barely perceptible nod of her head. Varro smiled, then turned to her wounded companion.

The worst of the young man's injuries was the gash in his side. Luck had been with him; none of the internal organs had ruptured, and outside of the massive loss of blood he could possibly recover. The girl's clumsily wrapped bandages gave way easily, to display a fine stitching job. A small puddle of vomit beside the bed told him that the girl had indeed lost what little was in her stomach during her work.

"This is good work," he complimented her, looking up. The Girl with the Pendant opened her mouth, but seemed unable to form her thanks in words. "You may be a surgeon yet, my lady."

"Will he live?" she asked, a touch of desperation in her voice. Varro shrugged.

"It's too early to say," he admitted, smearing a salve carefully over the stitches. "We've closed his wounds, but they could still fester. He has lost more blood than most I have seen. We'll keep him asleep with dreamwine and milk of the poppy. It will dull his pain and keep him from stirring and tearing his wound as he heals. But I cannot promise that he'll survive."

The words were not what she wanted to hear. She looked almost sick with fear. Varro wrapped the wounds in fresh bandages, then stooped to pick up his candle. The Girl with the Pendant backed away a step, but behind her, the child was still clearly visible. Her large eyes shone a most striking purple in the candlelight, or so it seemed. Varro hesitated a moment, mussing with his bandages and ointments in the candlelight as he examined her. Yes. They could be no other color than purple.

"Auntie Jocelyn?" the little girl asked.

"Hush," Jocelyn countered nervously, her voice low.

"Jocelyn," he said, packing his supplies. "A pretty name. It suits you, my lady."

"Thank you," Jocelyn said simply. Varro smiled, then looked to the little girl.

"What's your name?" he asked, smiling.

"Rhaenys," the little girl answered, hesitant. A look of terror passed across Jocelyn's face. Varro looked up in time to see it.

The young lady balked, then lunged forward with her dagger. Varro twisted back quickly; Jocelyn overbalanced on her sleeping leg and tumbled forward, crying out as the sailor caught her arm and dragged her to the floor.

"Let go of me!" Jocelyn screeched. She fought with all her might, but Varro was larger and had fought in skirmishes before. He grabbed her wrist and slammed her hand into the floor, jarring the dagger loose with the impact. Within moments he had pinned her beneath him, sitting on her chest with one knee on each forearm. Jocelyn struggled against his weight, but she had neither the strength nor the leverage to throw him. Rhaenys had backed away from the brief melee, shrinking into the corner with tears in those striking purple eyes.

"She is the princess?" Varro concluded. Jocelyn fought a moment more, but then ceased, saying nothing and glaring up at her captor. "You should never have reacted, my lady. It might have taken me days to realize, if I had realized at all."

"Let me go!" Jocelyn protested. Varro shook his head.

"You just tried to stab me," the sailor pointed out. "Steel does not sit well in my belly." Varro leaned forward, picking up the dagger. The shift of his weight to his knees forced a yelp of pain from the young noble beneath him, but then he sat back. "My lady, you must be more careful. You look the part of the noble. And your reaction… surely the princess was not the only Rhaenys in all of Westeros? Or even all of King's Landing?"

"Let me up," Jocelyn tried a second time.

"To stick this dagger…" Varro trailed off. The swirls in the steel had not been noticeable before, but now he could see the blade plainly. "This… is Valyrian steel?"

The look of horror that passed over her face confirmed his guess.

"This… this blade is worth more than the gilded sword you handed over yesterday," Varro said, gazing at the dagger in his hand. "This… I could buy my own ship, if I chose. And have gold left to pay a crew."

"Please," Jocelyn whispered. "Don't. It is… it's all he has left… of… of his friend."

Varro looked down at the noble. All the strength had fled her. Slowly, he stood up, lifting the girl to her feet. Fear shone bright in those golden brown eyes as she watched him, waiting for him to extort the price of his silence of simply turn her over to the captain.

"Don't ever show this blade again," he instructed her. "I'll try to find you better clothing, more suited to your… commoner status. The girl… let her keep her name, but don't let her out often. Maybe after the sun sets. I will explain that her eyes are injured, and that the darkness will help her heal. Say little. And hide your slippers."

"I… have no other shoes," Jocelyn said.

"Go barefoot," Varro told her. "You are not a noble any more, my lady."

Jocelyn nodded, staring blankly at him.

"You should rest," Varro continued. "I will bring food and water in an hour. Your… husband may not be able to eat, but without water he will surely die."

"Thank you," Jocelyn said, her voice little more than a whisper.

"I'll be back when I can," Varro promised. He turned to the door.

"Wait," Jocelyn said abruptly. The sailor turned back to her. "You… your name is Varro?"

"Varro Tizrano," he informed her. "Barber of _Merry Milena_."

"Why?" Jocelyn asked. "Why… why would you help us?"

Varro looked down.

"I… don't really have an answer," he admitted. "It… felt right."

"Thank you, Varro Tizrano," Jocelyn said. "I'll never forget this."


	7. The Brash Lion

**THE BRASH LION**

"One child. One still survives."

"At least it was the heir that we got," Jaime Lannister said, sitting at the foot of the council table. Tristan's cousin still wore his golden armor and the snowy white cloak of the Kingsguard, but that pristine white was now stained with the blood of the very king he had been sworn to protect. _The Kingsguard that had killed his own king_, Tristan thought. _And with good reason too, else the entire city might have burned to the ground. _Behind the head of the table, Kevan Lannister paced the Small Council chamber, his fist pressed to his lips in thought.

"Too many have escaped," his father decided without breaking stride. "Rhaella and the young prince Viserys have escaped to Dragonstone, and now one of Robert's own men saved Rhaenys from Lorch."

Tywin Lannister said nothing, his hands clasped behind his back as his stony gaze swept out over King's Landing. It was a beautiful day, the sun shining down on the city, but it was marred by columns of smoke from buildings that still burned and funeral pyres for those that had died in the sacking. Below the Red Keep, Lannister and Baratheon soldiers together fought to quell the chaos in the streets. Chaos, Tristan noted, that had been caused by Lannister troops in the first place.

The Small Council chamber was empty but for the four Lannisters, two fathers and two sons. Jaime Lannister had been waiting in the Red Keep as the battle unfolded throughout the city, ready to tell his father and uncle when they arrived of King Aerys' last orders for Jaime to kill Tywin. Tristan had arrived last, traveling with Ser Dell Loren and Lord Eddard Stark, in time to find the killing done; King Aerys, Rossart the pyromancer, Elia Martell, and Aegon Targaryen had all been killed. Perhaps it had been necessary, but the way Gregor Clegane had brutally murdered Elia and Aegon had gone far beyond distasteful.

And then there was Rhaenys Targaryen, stolen away by the bastard Taillefer Snow from under Amory Lorch's very nose. The manticore was still with the maesters, seeing to his torn leg. Tristan had never expected Taillefer Snow to be loyal to the dragons of House Targaryen; he had thought the golden dragons promised him would have swayed his allegiance.

"The queen and her young son will not be a problem," Tywin finally said, turning back to Kevan. "They are on Dragonstone, protected by the last of the royalists. Robert will strangle them into submission once the Redwynes and Tyrells have bent the knee to their new king. More disturbing is the disappearance of Rhaegar's daughter."

"She is only a child," Jaime said, drumming his fingers on the table. "I hardly think she will be a threat. On the run with a bastard."

"And a Tyrell girl," Tristan put in, speaking for the first time. "Taillefer Snow came back for her. For Jocelyn Tyrell."

"Jocelyn Tyrell," Tywin repeated. "Mace has no daughters."

"None of age, at least," Jaime put in. "I think he had a daughter just a few months ago."

"Victor Tyrell's younger daughter," Kevan explained. "A niece of Mace's."

"A cousin," Tristan corrected. His lady wife had told him much of Jocelyn Tyrell over the past year. "A distant one, at that."

"It matters little and less," Jaime said, shaking his head. "The mad king is dead, and the prince as well. And even Rhaegar's son, as Gregor Clegane saw to that matter. The queen and the prince will be bottled up on an island waiting for Baratheon to crush them. What does the girl matter?"

"The girl matters because she is an heir to the throne," Tywin said. "Something you'd best remember. Amory Lorch's failure could cost all that has happened here. I will not suffer another arrogant Targaryen on the throne, and Dorne will not be so quick to surrender if one of Elia's children is still running loose."

"The girl is a Tyrell," Kevan mused. "Perhaps she will try to run back to Highgarden or the Tyrell forces at Storm's End, with the princess in tow."

"Taillefer Snow will not chance that," Tristan said. "He wouldn't risk travel on the same road Lord Stark will need to take to Storm's End."

"Taillefer Snow," Tywin said. "The Snow of Standfast, is that not so?"

"It is," Tristan confirmed. "He did much of the Green Blade's thinking for him."

"And he abandoned his ser?" Jaime asked. He did not seem the least bit surprised. Tristan found himself thinking that he should have seen it as well; Taillefer Snow had somehow been close to the prince.

"He… never showed a great love for the Green Blade," Tristan stated. He had missed too much. "Perhaps Rhaegar promised him something more."

"Rhaegar was dead when he rescued the little girl," Kevan remarked. "He could have hidden his true allegiance and prospered under Baratheon."

"He came back for the girl," Jaime said dismissively.

"Regardless of motive, he still has the princess," Tywin pointed out. He turned squarely to Tristan, that stony emerald gaze boring into him. "What would he do? On the run, with a Tyrell and the princess. Where would he go?"

"He has contacts in many places," the young knight said. "It… was always difficult to know what he was thinking. But he is not a good enough rider to make the Tyrells before Stark, and the princess would be far too recognizable to travel with her through the Crownlands."

"We don't need to know where he wouldn't go, coz," Jaime noted. Tristan frowned.

"He had… friends in the Kingswood," he recalled. "And in Brandybottom, on Ser Loren's former lands before Rowan seized them. He could have gone to either of those places, or made for the north."

"The Starks are in the north," Jaime said.

"And Lord Eddard had no stomach for Aegon's death," Tywin added. "The rift created by Aegon's body may separate the two. And Rhaenys' disappearance may steal some of the iron from Baratheon's claim to the throne. The last thing we need are the Tyrells holding out for the missing princess."

"It will be bad enough with Dorne," Kevan assumed. "Rhaenys is as much Elia's daughter as Rhaegar's."

"Would that Clegane had left Elia alive," Tywin muttered. "But, peace will still come with Dorne. They cannot fight the Iron Throne alone. And without Rhaegar, the Reach and Dorne will never ally."

"How would they reach the north?" Jaime asked suddenly. The others turned to him.

"Who?" Tristan asked.

"This Snow," Jaime said. "Lannister forces breached the city before the royalists could mount a defense. All the gates were sealed. I found Clegane only a short time after he lost the bastard and the girls. He could never have left the city, not through one of the gates."

"There are other ways out of the city," Tristan said. "The sewers, the Blackwater…"

"The harbor," Kevan concluded. "Many ships set sail from the harbor, fleeing the battle. More than a few took refugees aboard."

"If they went that way, they could be anywhere," Tristan said. "They could be in Braavos by now."

"No, they could not," Tywin said. "But they may as well be. We have no way of knowing where every ship was bound, or which one they may have taken passage on. We will send word to the pirates in the Stepstones. One thousand dragons for the princess."

"They may not have taken flight at all," Kevan surmised. "They could still be hiding in the city."

"If that is the case, the Gold Cloaks will root them out," Tywin said. "Kevan, I want you to track down this Snow. Find out where he came from, and where he would go. There are precious few places in the Seven Kingdoms to hide a princess with purple eyes."

"Dorne," Tristan said suddenly. Kevan, Tywin, and Jaime all looked to him. Tristan could see his wife's eyes; Ashara Dayne and several in Dorne, especially around Starfall, held the same purple eyes that were so characteristic amongst the Targaryens.

"What?" Jaime asked.

"Dorne," Tristan said again. "She has darker hair, and the eyes. If she can disappear at all, it would be in Dorne."

"Would a Tyrell risk going to their enemies?" Kevan asked thoughtfully.

"Maybe," Tristan said. "But Taillefer… he definitely would. If he comes back to Westeros, he has no choice but Dorne."

The room fell silent. Kevan looked to his older brother. Uncle Tywin remained silent, his hard gaze on his nephew.

"Perhaps Tristan should lead the search for the girl,"Kevan suggested, looking to his son. Tristan fought to remain stoic; at last, he had earned the recognition he craved so dearly from his father. A chance to lead, to prove himself a true Lannister…

"Find the princess," Lord Tywin said at last. "Use whatever resources you need. End the line of the Targaryens, and Castamere will be yours."

"I… I'll do what must be done," Tristan said, struggling to keep his composure. Castamere, the ruin that was once the seat of House Reyne, still held fabulous wealth in its gold mines. The thought of becoming lord over such holdings made him dizzy with pride. His father and uncle, trusting in him, promising him such lands, if he completed the task, thrilled him to no end.

It was not until he left he truly comprehended the task before him.


	8. Jocelyn 3

**JOCELYN**

It might not have been so cold, if not for the wind.

Jocelyn stood somewhere in the middle of a long line of smallfolk, two bowls in hand as she waited for what passed for food on _Merry Milena_. The wind was constant, sweeping across the deck and carrying the dampness of the sea with it, chilling her through her new clothing. Or at least what passed for clothing. In all her life she never would have thought she'd wear such a shapeless, coarse dress of drab brown roughspun, far too large across her breasts and its hem dragging along the rough boards of _Merry Milena_. Her hair, always so clean, brushed, and braided, was now wild and loose, blown by the constant wind off the sea. Her feet were bare, feeling like two blocks of ice at the bottom of her legs except where splinters had pierced her soft soles. There the pain throbbed dully, enough to remind her of their presence, creating small circles of heat around the offending shards of wood.

Nor had she ever expected to wait in line for nothing more than a bowl of what the smallfolk around her called "brown". It had a film of grease on top and pieces of… something floating in it, and her first taste of it nearly made her wretch. Varro Tizrano had chuckled at that, then suggested she not eat in open view of the others until she could stomach the vile stew.

Jocelyn shuffled a step closer to the cook. At least fourteen more people stood between her and the brown. Jocelyn shifted her weight impatiently; she was still terrified of bringing Rhaenys out into the open, and she hoped the child had listened to her when she said to stay with Taillefer. Their first day aboard, the little princess refused to eat any of the bowl of brown Jocelyn had brought her. On the second, Rhaenys had choked down a few mouthfuls, and she and Varro had tried to give Taillefer some of the broth after Rhaenys had finished her portion. Yesterday, too hungry to object or care about the taste, and much to Jocelyn's relief, Rhaenys had eaten almost half a bowl of the revolting meal.

The line shuffled forward again. Jocelyn glanced back to the tiny closet that passed for a cabin anxiously. She had no idea how to be a mother; in the Red Keep she had played with Rhaenys and loved the little girl, but there were nursemaids, nannies, and Elia herself. Jocelyn was never responsible for her, and there was no place in the Red Keep that the little girl could go without being protected by Gold Cloaks and Kingsguard. Her greatest challenges with the little girl were whether to play hide and seek or come-into-my-castle, or sing the songs that her mother and father had taught her. Here, all she had was an unconscious bastard and a sailor-surgeon who would stop by only occasionally to see that they were not dead.

The line shuffled forward again. For a moment she nearly demanded that she be allowed forward; she was a rose of Highgarden, Jocelyn Tyrell, and she had the Princess Rhaenys with her. She had nearly blurted such a thing out when she remembered where she was. Two days ago Varro had given her the dress she now wore, taken from one of those who had died shortly after their escape from King's Landing. That night he had cast her clothing, as well as Taillefer's bloodstained finery, from the stern of the ship. Jocelyn Tyrell was no longer; she was merely Jocelyn of King's Landing, wife of an innkeep and very young mother of a girl named Rhaenys after the Queen Who Never Was.

The line shuffled forward again. Only a handful of the fifty and more refugees remained between her and the brown. She glanced back to the door again, growing more anxious. How long could she leave Rhaenys alone? Should she have brought the little girl out? She could have claimed Dornish ancestry; some in Dorne had purple eyes, and from time to time it could show up almost anywhere, or so she reasoned. Would smallfolk believe that? She didn't know, and she was hesitant to try her lie so quickly.

Finally she stood before the cook and the pot of stew. Jocelyn held out her two bowls. The cook, a man with ebon skin from the Summer Isles, eyed her suspiciously.

"Two bowls?" he asked. "You are hungry, girl?"

Jocelyn bristled at the rough treatment, but only for a moment. Jocelyn the innkeep's young wife would have seen this before, many times.

"One for me, and one for my husband and my daughter," she replied. "My husband is unable to walk, and Varro says my daughter's eyes heal better without the harsh sun."

The Summer Islander frowned at her in disgust, but thankfully he poured two bowls of brown, gave her two hunks of brown bread, and sent her on her way. Jocelyn turned back to that tiny cabin, hurrying in her desire to make certain that Rhaenys and Taillefer were both where she had left them. In her haste, she stepped on the long hem of her dress and nearly lost her food as she tried desperately to regain her balance. The brown splashed up on her thumbs, nearly scalding her, but she dared not let the bowls slip from her hands. It was the only food they would see all day. Trying to ignore what eyes might be on her, Jocelyn hurried to the tiny door, pushed it open, and walked inside.

Rhaenys was gone.

Jocelyn nearly dropped the bowls as she realized the little princess was nowhere in sight. A cold knot of panic tightened her stomach. Her knees felt weak.

"Rh…Rhaenys?" she asked. Her voice would barely obey her wishes. "Rhaenys, where… where are you?"

Silence for a long moment. Taillefer moaned, lost in a sea of milk of the poppy and dreamwine.

A tiny giggle from beneath the bed.

"Rhaenys?" Jocelyn said again. She knelt, carefully, still unable to shake her fear.

Two violet eyes looked out from under the bed, lost behind a tangle of curly, dark brown hair. There was a smile on her face. The first one that had appeared since before the manticore knight had tried to kill her.

"Rhaenys," Jocelyn said. The relief nearly made her collapse. Somehow she managed again to keep from spilling the brown as she slumped into a sitting position on the floor. "Please, honey, come out and eat."

Rhaenys wrinkled her nose at the bowls.

"Is it brown?" she asked. "I don't want brown. It tastes bad."

"You have to eat it," Jocelyn said, trying to persuade the girl. "Please, Rhaenys, come out from under the bed and eat some."

"I want cherry tarts," Rhaenys said. "Why don't we have cherry tarts? Mommy lets me have cherry tarts."

"We…" Jocelyn stopped. Mommy… Elia. Dead, shattered by a monster named Gregor. "We don't have any cherry tarts," the young noble forced out. She had to keep her tears down. "We… I'll find you cherry tarts another day. But please, please eat this, for me."

Rhaenys looked as though she would retreat under Taillefer's pallet, but finally she came out of her hiding place. Delicately she took one of the bowls in her tiny hands, but for a long moment stared into the greasy broth. Finally, she picked at the bread.

Jocelyn found herself far beyond caring what brown tasted like, or worrying what the meat in the brown actually was. Each day she found herself waking hungry and going to sleep hungry. Captain Naimerio had no problem taking the refugees' money, but considerably more problems giving anything back in return. From Jocelyn and Taillefer alone the blue bearded captain should have taken enough of a fortune to feed and transport all of the refugees aboard, but the captain still demanded copper, silver, or even gold coins for every convenience. Jocelyn ate down a mouthful of her brown, then watched Rhaenys.

"Why does he sleep all day?" the girl asked, looking to Taillefer. Jocelyn choked down the last of her broth with a fresh wave of emotion.

"He… got hurt," she managed. "He has to sleep, so he gets better."

Rhaenys looked at Taillefer for a long moment.

"I miss my mommy," the little princess said. "Where is she?"

"She…" Jocelyn could not find the words. How could she tell the poor girl that her mother was dead? That Gregor Clegane had killed her brother, then raped and killed her mother? Jocelyn blinked away her tears; crying would not help her, nor would it help Rhaenys. "She… is with the Mother now," the young noble tried. It was a weak, poor excuse for an answer, but it was all she could force out. Rhaenys seemed confused.

"She's with grandmother?" the child asked.

"She… might be," Jocelyn answered. She knew she should admit the truth, but the poor child had suffered so much. Queen Rhaella and Prince Viserys had departed for Dragonstone only a day before Taillefer arrived in King's Landing; Jocelyn had no idea what had happened to the other Targaryens since their ship had departed. The answer, such as it was, seemed to placate the young princess. "I'm going to watch over you for now," she continued. She moved closer to Rhaenys, letting the little girl lean against her. "But… we have to play a game. Okay, sweetling? We're going to play a game while we're on the boat. You call me mommy, and call Tai… call Uncle Taillefer daddy. Can you do that?"

"Uncle Taillefer?" Rhaenys echoed.

"Yes," Jocelyn said. She put an arm around the princess. "He… he is very special to me, sweetling. But for this game, you must call him daddy, no matter what."

"What kind of a game is it?" Rhaenys asked. The idea of playing a game had eased the child's anxiety, somewhat. Her large purple eyes, so like her father's…

"It's… pretend," Jocelyn fumbled. "It's… we're pretending that we are a family, to try and make believe with the other people on the boat."

"Why?" Rhaenys asked.

"It's a game where they have to try and guess who we are," Jocelyn explained. "But you can't tell them, they have to guess. Okay, honey?"

"Okay," Rhaenys said. Jocelyn could have breathed a sigh of relief. "But I want to be Balerion."

"Balerion?" Jocelyn echoed.

"My cat," Rhaenys said. She looked around suddenly. "Where is my cat?"

"I…" There was no answer, not that she could find. She pulled Rhaenys tighter to her, but whether it was to comfort the child or herself she couldn't say. She forced down the tears, barely; her eyes were misting as she pushed a smile onto her face for the child.

"Auntie Jocelyn?" Rhaenys asked.

"Mommy," Jocelyn choked out. "You… have to call me mommy."

"I miss my mommy," Rhaenys said. She pulled herself into Jocelyn's embrace.

And suddenly both of them were crying, holding onto each other as sobs wracked their bodies.

"I miss my mommy," Rhaenys whimpered, burying her head in Jocelyn's chest. "I want my mommy."

"I do too," Jocelyn whispered, trying desperately to hold herself together. "I do too."


	9. Tristan

**TRISTAN**

The inn had once been a place that catered to the well off among merchants and craftsmen in the city. Tristan himself had visited the place once or twice, before the war. It had been a brightly lit place, decorated with colorful lanterns and its chairs and tables kept in impeccable order.

Now, soot blackened the rafters of the building, and half of those sturdy tables and chairs had been smashed to kindling in the sacking. Only one pane of glass remained, a lonely diamond in a web of twisted and partially melted lead, hanging precariously in the last of a dozen windows that had lined the room's perimeter. Splinters of wood and shards of glass crunched beneath his boots. The serving girl, Marley or Harley or something like that, still moved through the tavern room, while her father picked through the remains of the glass and wood behind the bar.

The tavern still operated, however. A half dozen tables and several benches were left of the original furniture, and the initial sacking had not used up all of the inn's ale and wine. An odd mix of soldiers, merchants, and itinerants inhabited the tap room, quietly drinking in the late morning. Most of King's Landing was subdued in the wake of the sacking. The serving girl whose name he could not place moved silently and with her eyes on the floor; a look told the knight that she had suffered during the battle. Her light dress was ripped along the hem and the sleeve, and her face was still bruised. She had been a lively girl, if he remembered correctly, but now her dark eyes were dull and lifeless. Some of the red garbed soldiers in the tap room even now may have defiled her during that tumultuous night.

But he was not here to offer condolences or to drink. He had come for Amory Lorch.

Alone among the drinkers, Amory had a smile on his face. He could not be considered attractive by any measure; slightly overweight, with greasy black hair and beady black eyes close set in a pig's face, he was as foul as he was ugly. The knight slapped at the serving girl's arse as she passed, eliciting a sharp cry and a jump that took her nearly to the blackened rafters over her head.

"Come back, my lovely," Amory called out, leering after the girl as she fled behind the bar. Her father's face darkened, but both he and Lorch knew that there was nothing he could do. The split lip, broken nose, and blackened eye gave testimony to his first failure in protecting his daughter. Tristan stalked across the tavern as Lorch continued his taunting. "A nice, shiny stag for you to come sit on my lap, girlie! Your daddy could use the money!"

"You celebrate quite well for someone who failed so utterly."

Amory Lorch whirled in his seat, halfway to his feet before he saw the golden lion rampant on Tristan's brilliant crimson surcoat. The knight's beady eyes met Tristan's cold green stare for a long moment, before he sank back into his seat.

"Kevan Lannister's boy," the knight growled, his good humor lost in the face of his superior. "What do you want?"

"Innkeep," Tristan said, turning to the man behind the bar. He looked up at the Lannister's call. "We require one of your rooms for a short conversation."

"We… of course, m'lord," the innkeep faltered. He produced a key. "Top of the stairs, first door."

Tristan reached into his purse, pulling out a golden dragon. For a moment he looked at the coin; it would not buy back the suffering that Lannister troops had caused, but it was at least something.

"Here," he said, handing the coin over to the innkeep. The man looked at the dragon for a long moment.

"Th-thank you, m'lord," he said. Tristan took the key and started up the steps, Amory Lorch limping along behind him. After his display in the tavern room, Tristan had no interest in slowing or making the manticore's ascent any easier.

The room was anything but pristine. The bed, a narrow, straw mattress and a wood frame, had been collapsed, and the rough sheets were stained with blood. The narrow window had been smashed, but outside the morning sun was warming the city as it climbed into the sky. Amory Lorch lumbered into the room and slammed the door shut.

"You have nerve, boy," he snapped. "Even a Lannister does not get away with such with me."

"Shut your mouth," Tristan snarled, patting his sword. He was dressed in his elaborate Tyroshi plate mail, while Lorch did not even have his shield with him. Amory snarled in anger, but could do nothing while the odds were so heavily in the Brash Lion's favor. "You were dispatched to… deal with Rhaenys Targaryen. You failed."

"And what of you?" Amory shot back. "What of the bastard, the Snow of Standfast? What was he doing here, protecting Rhaenys, when he should have been with you on the Trident?"

"I don't care for your excuses," Tristan growled. "The princess is alive and on the run. We have work to do."

"King's Landing is taken," Amory Lorch pointed out. "The king is dead. The prince as well, and his son. The queen and the last prince are bottled up on Dragonstone. What more is left?"

"Cleaning up the mess you left behind," Tristan answered. He tried to keep his tone formal. "We will find Rhaenys Targaryen and the two that stole her away."

"They left the city," Amory said dismissively. "They are no more concern to us."

"If you think that, you are as stupid as you are ugly," Tristan declared. He could feel his calm dissipating. Part of him didn't care. "Without Rhaenys, there is still a claimant to the throne that we do not possess or will not possess imminently. Without her, and with a Tyrell girl running with her, what makes you think Mace Tyrell and Paxter Redwyne will simply end their siege at Storm's End? What makes you think Dorne will bend the knee with one of their own blood running loose? Have you always been this stupid, _Ser_ Amory?"

Lorch went for his sword, but before he could free the blade from its scabbard Tristan pulled his dagger and stepped forward. Amory's eyes went to the blade at his throat.

"I'll finish the job Taillefer Snow started, pig," he threatened, his voice low and even. Lorch turned a baleful glare on his superior, but released his hold on his hilt. Part of him was already screaming the imprudence of such a naked threat, but Tristan wanted little and less to do with the repulsive Amory Lorch. "Very well," he said, sheathing his dagger and stepping back. "You and I, _Ser_ Amory, are to finish the job you and Clegane began."

"Kill Snow, and the princess," Amory assumed. Tristan nodded, though the actual statement of his mission sat ill with the young lion. Amory's beady eyes swept over him. "You don't like this," he assumed.

"It doesn't matter whether I like it or not," Tristan stated. "What does matter is finishing the job."

"Don't worry, Ser Tristan," Amory said, mocking compassion. "I'll take care of it all. I'll kill your bastard friend for you, and then I'll kill the fearsome Targaryen girl for you as well. Leave it to me, good and noble Ser Tristan. A Lannister should not dirty his hands with the blood of traitors and enemies."

"That my uncle thinks you useful is the only reason you are still alive," Tristan said. "You are no knight. Just a butcher with a sword."

"It is what all knights are, _Ser_ Tristan," Amory told him. Tristan clenched his fist around the hilt of his sword, but stopped himself before drawing the weapon.

"Go," the Lannister ordered. "Prepare yourself. We have work to do, starting in the morning."

"Starting now," Amory countered. Tristan had started for the door, but stopped and turned back to the knight.

"What do you mean?" Tristan asked suspiciously.

"Did you know I stabbed Rhaenys?" Amory asked. "To the hilt. That's how far my sword went in. But my sword turned against me. I suffered the wound. It happened again with the bastard himself. I should have cleaved his head in two, but instead I tore into my own shoulder. How can this be?"

Tristan paused.

"It cannot be," the knight answered. His lie was threadbare, and Amory Lorch saw that at once.

"You're not protecting the bastard, are you?" he asked, smirking. "I would not want to report to Ser Kevan Lannister that his son was _protecting_ a traitor to the crown."

Tristan paused again. This was his task, given to him by the very leaders of House Lannister. Why did following the order feel like betrayal?

"He must have trained as a maester," he finally answered quietly.

"He bears no chain," Amory said. "What does this have to do with my battle with him?"

"You do not listen, even when you hear what is said," Tristan retorted. "If he was a traitor during the war, he must have known how to send ravens. He knows the heraldry of half a hundred noble houses, even many obscure ones. And as for your sword turning against you…"

Amory waited, but no light of understanding shone in those piglike eyes.

"Some few maesters have a distinctive link in their chains," the Lannister continued. "It is made of Valyrian steel. Maester Perwyn, Ser Loren's maester at Standfast, told me of these links. Maybe one in a hundred maesters will forge one, and it is for sorcery."

"Taillefer Snow is… a sorcerer?" Amory concluded, disbelieving.

"It is the only way to explain what he has done," Tristan concluded. Tristan himself had been skeptical at best, but Taillefer Snow had done too many things that seemed impossible. With a word and a gesture, he could capture someone's confidence completely, turn a handful of copper coins into weapons, or… change a weapon so that it inflicted its wounds upon its wielder. He had done it too many times to ignore. Ser Dell Loren, the knight that both he and Taillefer had served during the Rebellion, had turned a blind eye to it, or perhaps even encouraged it. His obsession with the secrets of Valyrian steel may have even given him reason to keep the bastard close for such a reason; many legends spoke of the creation of Valyrian steel to be more than mere smelting and smithing. "He may not fight as well as a knight," Tristan admitted, "but he is dangerous nonetheless."

"A sorcerer," Amory mused. He smiled. "Then, we must kill them both, and the Tyrell girl. They have been corrupted by demonic forces."

"Leave me," Tristan said, holding his temper by the merest margins. Amory's smile broadened.

"We will kill them for the good of Westeros," Lorch continued, needling the Lannister.

"Get out!" Tristan ordered. Amory's smile remained burned into his mind long after the knight had hobbled down the steps. Would that Taillefer had split his gut rather than his leg.

The trip to the Red Keep found the elation of the last days vanishing in the reality of the task set before him. The streets of King's Landing were beginning to return to normal after the chaotic night of the sacking, but everywhere reminders of the battle remained. Resplendent in his crimson surcoat and plate, few dared to meet the eyes of an obvious Lannister, scurrying out of his way as his charger trotted up Aegon's Hill to the Red Keep.

The trip to the Red Keep found the elation of the past few days rapidly fading. Amory Lorch may have taken the vows of a knight, but he was willing to murder a little girl in her room. And if Lorch was no knight, if he was the antithesis of the vows that all men took after standing their vigil and taking their vows before the Seven, what was Tristan? He would be landed, he would gain the favor of his family, nearly lost for good after the Tourney at Harrenhal, and House Lannister's power would be preserved. But wasn't a knight supposed to protect the innocent? Especially women and children? With the passage of time from his meeting with his father and uncle, he found himself less and less certain of his path. The more he thought about it, the more he found the price of Castamere at odds with the vows he had sworn the morning he was knighted.

Tristan spurred his horse, trying to outrun his own turmoil, but it was no good. He could see Elia Martell's face, not broken and bloodied after Gregor Clegane had finished with her, but as she looked whispering to Ashara Dayne on the dais at Harrenhal's feasts. Ashara, the greatest prize he had brought back from Harrenhal. What would she think of her husband being party to murdering the princess she had once served? What would she think of hunting down a child? Harrenhal had seen the Brash Lion win Ashara from both Brandon Stark and Elia Martell; the two Dornish girls rarely left each other's sides until Tristan had wooed her away to the Wailing Tower. Now they were married, and he had not had the stomach to tell her directly, through raven or rider, of what had transpired in the Red Keep on the night of the sacking. She would not understand what needed to be done.

Then again, he was having a hard time understanding it himself.

Tristan was nearly at a gallop as he reached the Barbican. The Gold Cloaks standing sentry at the great bronze doors of the Keep stepped quickly out of his path, but the knight barely noticed as he dropped down from his mount before she even came to a stop. Tristan tossed the reins to a young stable boy and stalked away, wanting nothing more than the comfort of his own rooms.

Tristan's rooms were just above the old kitchens of the Red Keep, a private, sumptuous chamber that for the moment would give him only small comfort. As he reached the top of the steps, however, he found the door to his rooms slightly ajar. Hand on his sword, the Lannister pushed the door open cautiously.

Inside, a single man sat at his table, drinking red wine from the fine crystal. He was hardly clean; his dark brown hair was long, matted and unbrushed, his jaw covered by unshaven stubble. His boots, propped on the fine cloth of the dining table, were well worn and muddy, leaving spots of brown on the white linen. His blue eyes held an iciness about them that made the Lannister immediately suspicious, but a smile spread across his face as he saw the knight enter.

"Ser Tristan Lannister," he said, removing his boots from the table and rising. It took only half a heartbeat for Tristan to see both the sword loosely in its scabbard on his left side, and the left hand arm above it that was missing a hand. "I have been waiting half the morning for you."

"Who are you?" Tristan demanded, his hand still on his sword.

"A friend," the stranger answered. "Someone who would be more than willing to help you track down Taillefer Snow. For a price, of course."

"What do you know of Taillefer snow?" Tristan demanded. The stranger smiled.

"One needs only ears to hear," he answered. "Gold Cloaks tear apart Flea Bottom, the Street of Steel, everywhere, looking for a girl with purple eyes and her caretaker, a man with eyes that might, in the north, be even more recognizable. Lucky for you, I am of the north."

"I asked you a question," Tristan stated. "Do not answer me with riddles."

"I know him," the stranger said. He held up his missing hand. "We have… history together."

"Then you should be willing to serve the realm," Tristan said. The stranger laughed.

"The honor or serving the realm does not feed a man at night," he replied, when his laughter died down. "No, Ser Tristan, I will need coin. But I can be most useful, that I can promise."

"Truly," Tristan said. "What good is a one handed sellsword?"

"More good than you think," the stranger answered, growing serious. "You'll never find him without me."

"Are you so certain?" Tristan asked. The stranger nodded. "And how much coin would be enough to sway you?"

"Three thousand golden dragons," the northman answered. "And perhaps some land, as well. After all, I figure the Lannisters will be close enough to the new king that perhaps a few acres could be carved of a disobedient lord's kingdom."

"You presume quite a bit," Tristan noted.

"You want me to track down the man that stole Princess Rhaenys from under your very noses," the stranger countered.

"You will have the money," Tristan said. "Do not presume a lordship from this act."

The stranger considered the offer.

"We will discuss it again," he said. "Three hundred dragons, and perhaps we can talk to your Lord Father later on about land in the riverlands. Or the Vale. It is beautiful in the Vale. I've seen Gulltown."

"Enough," Tristan said. "What is your name, sellsword?"

My name is Axell," the northman replied. "And I promise you, I'll bring you the bastard's head. As long as you meet my price."


	10. The Usurper's Hand

**THE USURPER'S HAND**

"I'll have no more talk of this. We are still at war!"

"Your Grace," Jon Arryn began, "we can offer peace to the last of-"

"No!" Robert Baratheon bellowed, hurling his half empty goblet aside. The brass rang off the stone walls of the Small Council chamber with a hollow echo. "The Targaryens still fight us! Dorne still fights us! We should offer peace now that we have the upper hand?"

For a long moment the chamber remained silent but for the last whispers of Robert's goblet rolling across the floor. The new king was still recovering from his wounds, and wine had been his constant companion. Jon Arryn wished the wine, or the wound, or even a whore would have confined the king to his room for this particular meeting.

The hastily constructed Small Council left Jon with precious few he could call friend; indeed, it was small even for the term "Small Council". Tywin Lannister, Warden of the West and commander of the forces that had sacked King's Landing, had no interest in seeing the last of the Targaryens left alive. Hoster Tully, Lord of Riverrun and one of the first allies Jon had found in his war against Aerys, seemed only marginally more tractable, but perhaps Jon's marriage to his daughter Lysa could help him. Grand Maester Pycelle, alone of those left from the Mad King's advisors, stroked his beard thoughtfully, but gave no inclination as yet of his opinions on the matter. Jon had few dealings with the Red Keep's maester, but he would need the gray robed man if he had any hope of swaying the new king.

"The king is correct, Lord Hand," Tywin Lannister said, finally breaking the silence. "The Targaryens cannot be left alive. The Queen Rhaella is of the line by both blood and marriage. She will name herself queen or name her young son as new king. Rhaenys is Rhaegar's daughter, and has just as strong a claim."

"That may be," Jon conceded, "but exile would suffice. Send them to the Free Cities, but let them live. They are only children."

"Children grow to become claimants to the throne," Tywin Lannister informed him.

The King's Hand glanced around the room, searching for aid. He wished Ned Stark had not left so quickly; Lord Tywin's "gift" of the brutalized bodies of Elia Martell and little Aegon, barely recognizable after the monster Gregor Clegane had finished with them, had sent the Lord of Winterfell into a cold rage. Silently Jon wondered if the two boys he had fostered at the Eyrie would ever be friends again.

"I cannot refute Lord Tywin's assessment," Hoster Tully said, sitting across the table from the Warden of the West. "But… murdering children? Is this what we are about now?"

"The Riverlands suffered much during the war," Tywin said, his green eyes fixed on the lord opposite him. "Do you think it will end if there are still Targaryens alive to claim the throne? Do you think your daughter Lysa will be safe, now that she is married to the man who first called his banners against the Mad King? Or your other daughter, Catelyn, wed to another of the men who orchestrated the Rebellion?"

"They are children," Lord Hoster reiterated.

"They are Targaryens," Tywin Lannister countered.

"A war is full of choices no man wishes to make," Grand Maester Pycelle put in, stroking his thick beard thoughtfully. "In war, men must do things that they would not consider under… better circumstances. Lord Hand, Lord Tully, I myself do not wish to condone such actions as the murder of children. But the shedding of blood has already started. Without these two poor souls' deaths, many more may die, in all our lands."

"Enough of this!" King Robert declared, though some of the anger had left him. He was getting his way, Jon could see that. Thanks to the damned Lannisters. "We do what we have to in war. And until this war is over, I'll hear no more of this talk!"

King Robert stood slowly, still favoring the wounds he had received on the Trident, then stormed out of the Small Council chamber. Again the council chamber lapsed into an uncomfortable silence. Hoster Tully finally stood, turning his attention to the Warden of the West.

"You go find them," the Lord of Riverrun declared. "Kill your children. I'll have no part of it."

"You had a part in it the day you married your daughters to Arryn and Stark," Lord Tywin stated, no trace of emotion in his voice. Hoster Tully glared at his counterpart.

"And you had no personal reasons for taking part in this war," he said, a cold smile on his face. Tywin remained unmoved, his green eyes flinty. "Go about your business then," Hoster said. "Be done with it."

Jon watched as Lord Tully exited the council chamber, helpless to mend the rifts that were forming.

"If you would, Lord Hand," Grand Maester Pycelle said. "My strength is not what it used to be. With your leave?"

"Of course," Jon said absently. Grand Maester Pycelle shuffled past him, following Tully out. With no one but Tywin left, the King's Hand moved to depart as well.

"You know it must be done, Lord Hand," Tywin said behind him. The Lord of the Vale turned back to Lord Lannister..

"What needs to be done?" Jon asked. Tywin folded his arms across his chest, his face a stone mask.

"The Targaryens," he clarified. "They cannot be allowed to live. As long as even one remains to lay claim to the throne, there will be no peace."

"You ask my leave to murder a woman and two children," Jon said, "one of whom may be dead already."

"If she is, then our task is that much simpler," Tywin said. "But I do not believe she is. Rhaenys was smuggled out by a traitor, one my nephew knows well. This bastard could have destroyed your cause, and may intend to yet do so with the princess. Robert is a generous man with his pardons, but this is no lord or Kingsguard who displayed his loyalty with valor. He must be found and struck down, and the girl with him."

"I have sent ravens to Dorne, Highgarden, and Dragonstone," Jon said. "I have informed Stannis that Lord Stark will soon relieve him at Storm's End. This war is drawing to a close. It will go that much easier with Dorne if they are given the little princess."

"So that they may raise their banners when she comes of age?" Tywin countered. "Rhaenys was Rhaegar Targaryen's firstborn. You know the Dornish ways as well as I do. They will consider her to be the true heir to the Iron Throne, moreso than they would have even considered young Aegon."

Jon could say nothing to that. The Lord of Casterly Rock was correct in that respect.

"We can exact pledges from them, that they will not raise their banners for Rhaenys," the Hand explained. "They would not break an oath sworn to the king."

"Unless they do not consider him the rightful king," Tywin pointed out. "There is only one way this can end, Lord Hand. Rhaenys and Viserys must die. Two children, or thousands in the war that will inevitably follow?"

"War can still be avoided," Jon tried.

"Succession is too prickly to be left to chance," Tywin said. "The Targaryen line must be ended, before the dragon can rise again."

Jon paused a long moment.

"Is Lord Tully right?" the Hand asked. "Are you doing this to ensure Robert's claim to the throne, or because you fear the repercussions of your men's actions?"

Tywin's glare grew stony.

"I did what had to be done," he growled. "Do not hide behind your honor, Lord Hand, you know it to be true. If not for my actions, the Mad King would have burned your precious Robert, along with this entire city. 'Let Robert be king over charred bones and cooked meat', he had said. _I_ stopped him before he could destroy this city in a sea of wildfire."

"You stopped the Mad King," Jon conceded," and you murdered a woman and her infant son as well."

"To protect your king's claim," Tywin rebutted. "You chose Robert Baratheon because of his Targaryen blood. What makes you think a true Targaryen will not be taken over him? Many lords would still rally behind the dragon's banners, if there is a claimant left."

The King's Hand dropped his eyes to the ground. There would be no dissuading the Warden of the West, he realized. And with Tywin's consent, Robert, once his ward, dear to him as a son, would continue his quest to exterminate the last of the Targaryens.

"I do not approve," Jon said quietly.

"You may turn your back, if that will save your honor," Lord Tywin offered. A definite note of condescension had found its way into his voice. "I will do what must be done for the kingdoms."

He should have been a stronger man. But Jon Arryn, Hand of King Robert, turned and walked out of the council chamber.

It was not a long walk from the council chambers to the royal apartments in Maegor's Holdfast. Not even a week had passed since the brutal sacking, since Gregor Clegane had murdered Elia Martell and Prince Aegon with such brutality that it had turned his stomach, and since the bastard Snow had stolen away with Princess Rhaenys and one of Elia's handmaidens in the middle of the night. As he made his way up the steps, a flushed chambermaid, a pretty little thing, rushed past him with an empty pitcher.

"And don't come back until you have more wine!" Robert's voice roared after her. Jon ascended the last few steps to see the doors to the king's chambers partially open. The King's Hand steeled himself before pushing through those doors.

King Robert himself was seated on the edge of King Aerys' massive bed, his shirt off to reveal the bandages covering his side where Rhaegar had nearly killed him. Blood still seeped into those bandages; Jon began to doubt that the new king was taking the rest that his maesters suggested, even if he was spending much of his time in the huge bed. As Jon entered the room, Robert glared at him.

"I ask for wine, and she brings me water," the king complained. "Were Aerys' servants deaf?"

"Your Grace," Jon began. The formal tone soured the king further.

"Need I ask what this visit is about?" he inquired.

"Rhaenys," Jon answered. "Rhaella and Viserys."

"I don't even want to hear their names any more," Robert growled. He reached for the near empty bottle on his bed table, drinking the last of the red wine in a single gulp.

"Perhaps water instead of wine would be preferable, for the moment," Jon suggested. Robert stared at him for a moment.

"I didn't make you hand to be my nursemaid!" the king suddenly erupted. He hurled the empty bottle in Jon's direction. He barely had time to flinch before the glass shattered against the wall behind him, far to the left. "I'm in pain, damn you! A little something to dull it would be appreciated, not more complaints about winning the war!"

"They are children!" Jon shouted suddenly.

"They are _his_ children, the Seven damn him!" Robert bellowed back. "_He_ stole my Lyanna, and now I'll take my due!"

"_He_ is dead!" Jon retorted. "What honor is there in killing a little girl? A mother and her young son? Lock them in the Maidenvault, exile them to the Free Cities, put them in the Black Cells! But do not set out to murder women and children!"

Robert stood slowly, his hands clenched into fists.

"We don't even know where they are," the king said. "We don't know where my Lyanna is. Find her. Find the princess, find Lyanna. Find someone. And then we can talk about killing or not killing. At least do that!"

The King's Hand paused a long moment, studying the man before him. He had killed Rhaegar, and yet he still searched for vengeance.

"Your Grace," Jon said, bowing his head slightly. He turned and strode out of the king's bedchambers, frustrated and helpless. Still, one thing was true of it all; he had no idea where Lyanna Stark or Rhaenys Targaryen were.

But there was someone yet in the Red Keep who might.


	11. Taillefer 3

**TAILLEFER**

Rhaegar had won at the Trident. The royalists had beaten back the Usurper. Robert Baratheon lay face down in the Trident, slain by the prince. Aerys was removed, the prince became the king, and he, for all he had done, for all he had sacrificed, had become King's Hand. He was free to marry Jocelyn Tyrell; no one would dare stop him.

No. Rhaegar had fallen on the Trident.

He had ridden to King's Landing to find it in flames. Lannister forces had been swarmed across the city, raping and pillaging. He had tried to find Jocelyn, but in the end they had captured him. Tristan had arrived, mocking all he had tried to do. He had given it all up, tried to spy for the prince, and still nothing had changed. As he was stretched on the rack he was forced to watch Gregor Clegane rape Jocelyn and beat her to death with his bare hands…

No. That had not happened either. Jocelyn was alive.

Was she?

The truth was too difficult to separate from the dreams. In one, Jocelyn floated above him, dabbing at his brow with a cold rag as he shuddered with fever. Had he dreamed that? Did he dream the purple eyed girl? Or the man with the red fuzz? Nothing made sense. His father stood over him, admonishing him for the path he had taken. Garath's whip cracked, tearing lines of pain through his side.

Or was that the sword of a manticore knight? Why could he not tell? A whip should not dig as deeply as a sword…

Books, written in Old Valyrian or the strange symbols of Asshai. He tried to read them, but pain shot up his arms when he touched them. He cried out in agony. Or was that only in the dream? The books burst into flames at his touch, searing his mind and his eyes as surely as it did his hands. _Forbidden knowledge_, they said. _Each charm sears your soul away, and soon you shall burn to nothing…_

Jocelyn, in her dusky red riding dress at Harrenhal. She had looked so beautiful, so vulnerable when he had given her the crown of silk winter roses. Had Lorch killed her, or merely nicked her arm? Why could he not remember?

Roose Bolton, in simple black. A whisper had sent him to the dungeons for half of a year, maybe more. He had kept the count so well, how could it escape him now? He would be punished if he could not recall; a lash for each day, and he knew the count was over a hundred.

Maester Tybald. A friend, but a friend who would send him to the rack. Was he here? Did he know that Taillefer had lost the count? A hundred lashes…

His side ached. Perhaps Garath had missed his back; sometimes he did that. Maybe on purpose. The room swayed; the Dreadfort had never done that before. The pallet felt the same, though. Rough straw, a moth eaten blanket, perhaps. Shafts of light, shining down weakly on his body. His cell had been far too deep to see the sun…

His eyes opened. It felt like prying open a rusted door, to make the lids rise. What little light there was in the room nearly blinded him. He groaned, trying to raise a hand to shield himself from the worst of the illumination. His eyes ached. His side ached. He was cold.

He tried to sit, but it was no use. There was no strength in his arms, and his side flared in pain as he tried. Another groan escaped him. Somewhere a little girl sang, maybe a bit off key but pleasantly, but his groan must have made her stop.

"It's okay," he croaked. His voice was barely recognizable, even to himself. He was absolutely parched.

"Taillefer?"

The voice. Jocelyn? It sounded like her…

His head flopped to the sound. He forced his eyes open again. It couldn't be Jocelyn standing there in front of him; roses didn't wallow. The girl looked like her, but she was dressed in a brown sack cinched at the waist, barefoot and hair wild…

"Taillefer!" she exclaimed. She dropped to her knees at his side and grabbed his head, kissing him with enough might to drive him back into the pallet. His head swam; he tried to push her away, and pull her close, all at once. "Gods Taillefer, I was so worried!"

"I missed you," Taillefer said. It was all he could think of saying, and certainly, it was no lie. The nightmares of seeing her raped or killed still disturbed him; they had been far too vivid for his liking. "I… where are we?"

"We're on _Merry Milena_," Jocelyn said, finally releasing him. Tears were in her eyes as she leaned back slightly. "I was so worried. It has been a week since King's Landing!"

"A… week?" Taillefer echoed weakly. No wonder he could hardly move; he had not done so in a week! "How… how did we…?"

"Escape?" Jocelyn finished. "We made it to the harbor, I gave them your gemstones… they wanted more and you offered your sword… Gods Taillefer, never do that again!"

It was several moments before he could speak, her embrace was so tight. She kissed him again, on his lips, his brow, his cheek, anywhere that she could reach. The peasant girl that had been Jocelyn Tyrell finally released him a second time, but she kept his hand in hers.

"I missed you," she whispered, blinking away her tears. "I prayed every night that you would wake again."

Behind her, a pair of vivid purple eyes gazed at him, dark, wavy hair and fair face hidden behind Jocelyn's skirt. The purple eyed girl was not a dream. It was Rhaenys Targaryen.

"I… I'm thirsty," Taillefer managed, looking away from those haunting eyes. "Hungry."

"All they have is something called brown," Jocelyn said. "But I'll get you what I can. Can you… can you watch Rhaenys?"

"I…" Taillefer nodded, unable to think of what to say.

"Rhaenys, honey, stay with daddy," Jocelyn said. She must have been practicing that particular lie; she almost sounded truthful saying it. Rhaenys nodded, and watched as Jocelyn hurried through the door.

The little princess looked back to Taillefer, those big purple eyes cutting through him. Taillefer tried to meet the gaze, but found himself turning away.

"Uncle Taillefer?"

Taillefer turned back. How could he respond to that? He had been no one's uncle before. The child before him still watched him, looking as uncertain as he felt.

"Yes?" Taillefer asked. Did he call her by name? Should he call her some kind of pet name? Sweetling? Honey?

"Auntie Jocelyn says I have to call you daddy," Rhaenys said. She looked so serious it almost made him laugh. "We're playing a game."

"We are?" Taillefer asked. "What kind of game?"

"It is a game where we pretend to be someone else, and everyone has to guess who we are," Rhaenys explained. "Auntie Jocelyn says we're doing very well, because no one knows who we are."

"Auntie Jocelyn… is very clever," Taillefer managed. His rose had done the impossible; she had made a four year old keep her mouth shut! "But don't you remember? You have to call her mommy, remember?"

"Oh," Rhaenys said. She looked abashed. "You won't tell Auntie… mommy, will you?" she asked. Did she fear some punishment, or simply want to please her new family?

"I won't tell if you won't," Taillefer promised. Rhaenys smiled at that. The bastard racked his brain, trying to think of what to say next, but of all the things he had ever learned, talking to a four year old was not one of them. Seven hells, he had _avoided_ children for much of his life. The silence was growing long and awkward when Rhaenys saved him.

"Why do you sleep so much?" she asked. "Auntie mommy says you got hurt. Did you get hurt?"

"Yes, I did," Taillefer said. He left it at that; if she had forgotten all that had happened in Maegor's Holdfast, it would be better for her.

"Can I see?" Rhaenys asked.

"I… it's all bandaged up," Taillefer said. She had seen enough blood; she didn't need to add the mangled mess that was his side to her list of bad memories. "You can't see it right now."

"Oh." Rhaenys looked almost disappointed. "Does it make you sleepy?"

"Uh…" Taillefer tried to figure out what to say. "It… I have to sleep to heal," he tried. Rhaenys blinked.

"Oh," she said again. Once more Taillefer tried to think of any way to speak to a child, and came up with nothing. "Are we going to see Grandmother and Uncle Viserys?"

"We… no, I don't think so," Taillefer answered. "Not… not yet, anyway."

"Where are we going?" Rhaenys asked. Taillefer paused, and not because he did not know how to speak to Rhaenys.

"I have no idea," the bastard finally answered.


	12. Tristan 2

**TRISTAN**

Amory Lorch led the way, winding down the uneven, cracked Flea Bottom street with a torch.

Tristan could feel the eyes upon him as he traveled. Even at the late hour, the pot shops and winesinks of Flea Bottom were still busy, and the curious watched the two knights as they rode past. Few of those looks were friendly; the people here held no love for the Lannisters or their bannermen since the sacking, but few would dare to attack a pair of well armed, noble knights mounted on their powerful chargers.

Axell's black mare, a gift from the stables of the Mad King, was tethered just outside a dingy pot shop located at the end of a twisting alley. The buildings of the alley, dingy brick affairs of three stories, leaned in over the cobbles, their top floor windows close enough to kiss across the alley. Amory's torch was not the only light here, thankfully; light spilled out through the grimy, clouded glass of the small windows of the pot shop. Amory dropped his torch into a puddle of sludge on the ground, extinguishing it with an angry hiss. The stench of warmed nightsoil nearly made Tristan gag.

"This is the place?" he asked doubtfully. Lorch nodded.

"Your sellsword is here," he said, gesturing to the horse already outside. Tristan nodded, steeling himself to enter the establishment.

Sullen eyes lifted from the battered tables as Tristan and Amory entered the pot shop's common room. A dozen or more of the dirtiest, most suspect inhabitants of Fleabottom watched the pair of knights warily, before finally turning back to the greasy bowls of brown set before them. The owner, a spindly man with rags for clothes and no shoes, hurried around the planks that made up his serving area, bowing obsequiously with each step.

"If I'd a known, m'lord, I'd a called for your men sooner," he said, following as the two knights moved to the stairs. "Your man… he didn't explain nothing, but I know you're a noble, and I don't want no trouble…"

"Enough," Tristan said, turning to the scarecrow. "Go about your business, and see that we're not disturbed."

"Absolutely, m'lord," the owner said, bowing again. He shuffled backwards to his pot, but his eyes never left the knight or his belt pouch. Tristan followed as Amory led the way up the stairs, the manticore knight's leg slowing him considerably.

At the third floor, Amory turned to a room that leaned out over the alley below, with one of the kissing windows. The other knight pushed the door open and stepped aside. Tristan entered the room warily, wrinkling his nose slightly at the pungent stink. If he had not known any better, he would have sworn he was going into a rookery.

The room inside was dingy and in disarray. A scuffle had obviously taken place; one table was broken and a pair of small cages were smashed and overturned to his left, sitting atop the stains of the birds that had once been held within them. To his right, Axell leaned back in the last intact chair of three, his heavy boot pinning a man's head to the ground. The victim wore the gray robes of a maester.

"Let him up," Tristan directed. Axell shrugged, but did as he was told. As he removed his boot, the prisoner stood slowly. Tristan allowed himself a weary smile. "Cedric," he said. "I had wondered where you'd gotten off to."

"Tristan?" Cedric asked, recognizing the knight. Tristan nodded. "What are you doing here?"

"Looking for a girl," Tristan said. Cedric paled for a moment, but then gained a hint of mischief to his eyes.

"I think you're looking in the wrong place," the maester said. "The Street of Silk would offer far better choices."

Tristan turned his back. Axell's boot connected with the maester, throwing him backward. He turned back again to see Cedric crawling back to his knees, one hand holding his chest.

"Don't make this difficult, Cedric," Tristan said. "Please."

Cedric shook his head.

"You fought so proudly for the Usurper," he said. "The Grand Maester should have known where Lannister allegiances fell."

"Tell me where Rhaenys is," Tristan said. "Please, for the love of the Seven, tell me where she's gone."

"And let you murder her the way you murdered Aegon and Elia?" Cedric asked. "No, Tristan. Even if I knew, I wouldn't tell you."

Axell kicked the maester again, doubling him over again as he connected just above the rope that cinched his robes. Cedric barely fell to the floor before the sellsword grabbed him by the front of his robes, lifting the maester off the ground as he drew his stump back to strike.

"Axell!" Tristan demanded. There was too much anxiety in his voice. The sellsword turned back to him. "Put the maester down."

Axell put Cedric back on his feet. The maester coughed once, but refused to show any further discomfort.

"We can kill him here, if he won't give us what we want to know," Lorch suggested from behind him.

"He'll tell us what we want to know," Tristan decided. He looked back to the other knight. "Ser Amory, Axell, would you mind getting a drink for a moment?"

"What?" Axell asked, surprised. Amory arched a quizzical eyebrow.

"Maester Cedric and I are going to have a chat," Tristan explained, looking to his captive. "Aren't we, Cedric?"

Cedric leveled a skeptical smirk on Tristan, but said nothing. Axell shook his head, but did as he was told. Amory Lorch delayed a moment longer, watching his superior suspiciously.

"You can wait outside, Ser Amory," Tristan prompted.

"As you wish," Lorch conceded. As he disappeared through the door, Tristan nudged it shut with his boot and turned to Cedric.

"I don't want to hurt you," Tristan began.

"Then don't," Cedric said. "But don't expect to find anything out about the little princess from me. Even if they had told me where they were going, I wouldn't help you hunt her down and kill her."

"Instead, we'll let the war rage on," Tristan said. "After all, her life is more important than the men that will never be there to raise their children. Or the mothers, raped and murdered. Or the children themselves, left to starve in the fields."

"You can end this war easily," Cedric pointed out. "Rhaegar, Aerys, and Aegon are all dead. What more do you need?"

"Viserys, Rhaella, and Rhaenys," Tristan answered, looking to the window. He could see into the room across the street, the young woman tending to her own baby and the injuries that marred her face. "Three more. And then this is all done," he continued quietly.

"You don't seem thrilled with that prospect," Cedric said. Tristan turned back to him, feeling the color rush to his face.

"I want this done more than anyone," he countered, controlling his anger. He shook his head, letting a bitter laugh escape him. "You know, once I thrilled to war. I wanted it so badly. That was how you won glory. The Kingswood, the Blacktyde reavers in the Reach, marching with Robert Baratheon… I loved it. At first, anyway. But I've seen more than enough blood shed. I've been away from my wife and my son for long enough. And when I'm done with battle, you know everyone else has had their fill of blood as well."

Maester Cedric watched him for a moment, his face unreadable.

"Why, Ser Tristan," he said at last. "You almost sound honest."

He hadn't realized he had moved until the back of his gauntlet connected with Cedric's face. The maester spun and fell from the brutal backhand, stumbling back to his feet as Tristan tried to control the trembling through his body.

"Do not mock me again," he warned. Cedric found his footing, wiping a line of blood from his cheek where the metal gauntlet had bitten into him. The two faced off for what felt like forever, neither flinching.

"I don't have any of the information you want," Cedric told him, breaking the long silence. Tristan nodded.

"I believe you," he said. He honestly had no idea why; Cedric had chosen his side. By rights he should at least suspect the maester of lying. He looked to the empty baskets. "What were the ravens for?"

"Just in case I wanted to tell someone what was happening," Cedric replied evenly.

"Tell who?" Tristan asked.

"People that might be interested," Cedric answered.

"That could be construed as treason," Tristan advised him. Cedric shrugged.

"I guess that depends what side of the war you're on," the maester observed.

"You are a maester of the Red Keep, and I am sent by the Red Keep," Tristan stated. Cedric shook his head.

"I am the maester of Dragonstone, not the Red Keep," he corrected. "I am Rhaegar's maester. I came here to watch over Princess Elia and her children while Rhaegar fought at the Trident. I have been tutored by the Grand Maester and helped him with his ravens, that is true, but I am not of the Red Keep."

"Rhaegar is dead," Tristan said. Cedric nodded.

"So I've heard," he said. "But Rhaenys is still alive, and Dragonstone has not yet fallen. Until that point, I do what I do out of duty. Isn't that what you're doing, Ser Tristan Lannister?"

Tristan scowled at the maester.

"Where did you send the ravens?" he asked again.

"You assume I had the chance to send any before your friend barged in here," Cedric said. He looked to the window. "Too late to send any now, I suppose."

"You've been here too long to not have sent any," Tristan said. "Where did they go?"

"Ravens are fickle," Cedric said. "They could have flown back to the rookery in the Red Keep, for all I know."

"Stop playing games with me," Tristan said. "Who did you send the ravens to? What did you tell them?"

Cedric smiled innocently, gazing to the window.

"I'm taking you back to the Red Keep," Tristan growled.

"So I can be beaten and tortured for information I don't have?" the maester assumed. "Thank you, but I think I'll take my chances with your one handed friend."

"Don't be an idiot," Tristan said. "He'll kill you!"

"You say that like you don't want it to happen," Cedric said. "Would it not be easier that way? Your hands clean, and me still taken care of?"

"That's not what I want," Tristan tried.

"You want Rhaenys dead," Cedric pointed out. "You wanted Rhaegar dead, long before this war even began. Why not me, as well? Rhaegar's friend and maester. It would be quite a trophy for your uncle."

"Enough, Cedric!" Tristan ordered. "You're coming with me!"

"No," Cedric said. His hand suddenly flashed out of his robes, hurling a white powder into Tristan's face.

Tristan threw his hand up a heartbeat too late. The white powder burned his nostrils and stung his eyes, sending his vision to blurs of gray. Bellowing in rage, the knight drew his sword and lurched forward, swinging blindly. Books and bedclothes tumbled around him as he suddenly crashed to the floor. His sword connected with something, he thought he heard a scream of pain, but the world was lost in the burning stench of the powder, swirls of gray, and twining sheets. Something thumped him on the head as he tried to stand; he swung again, his blade slamming into a wall or something just as solid.

"Seven Hells!" the knight roared. "Lorch! Axell!"

"He's gone!" Amory Lorch exclaimed, already in the room. There was more crashing as someone shouldered past him.

"I'll get him," Axell declared. Tristan was shoved aside again, nearly collapsing into the ruined bed a second time.

"What happened?" Amory demanded, steadying his superior.

"He blinded me!" Tristan shouted. "Seven Hells, I'm blind!"

"And he's cut," Amory added. "Your sword is bloody."

"Find him!" Tristan ordered. Amory turned him and led him back through the room.

"Axell is after him," the manticore knight said. He chuckled as Tristan tried to find his way through the pot shop. "Are we done trusting old friends, _Ser_ Tristan?"

"Get me back to the Red Keep," Tristan growled. He hated to rely on Amory for anything, but in this he had no choice.

The stinging in his eyes had not relented by the time he heard Amory Lorch calling for the maester at the gates of the Red Keep. Two men helped him down from his horse and eased him onto a bench, Tristan still rubbing at his eyes as he tried to regain his sight.

"Don't do that," a woman's voice said from somewhere nearby. He knew that voice, he was sure of it. "It will only make the damage that much worse."

"Hold your tongue, woman," one of the Red Keep's guards snapped.

"I am sorry, Ser Tristan," another man said. "This woman says you sent for her."

"I did," Tristan said. "Shanna Blacktyde, of the Iron Isles."

"Of Blacktyde," Shanna corrected him. "You never were good at the details, Tristan Lannister."

"Good enough," Tristan countered. He reached to rub at his eyes again, but heeded the Ironborn's warning. "It took you long enough to reach King's Landing."

"Considering where I was when I received your summons, I think I made it quite quickly," Shanna protested. "Especially with how surprised I was to receive a summons from you, of all people. What is it you want of me, Lannister?"

"I helped you regain your ship," Tristan said. He could hear Shanna sigh.

"Yes, and my brothers will forever rue the day we caught up to them," the woman agreed. "I am once again captain of the _Grim Lady_."

"I need a ship," Tristan said. "And a good captain to carry me across the Narrow Sea."

"There could be profit in that," Shanna said.

"A thousand golden dragons," Tristan informed her. There was a moment of silence.

"Where are we going?" Shanna finally asked.

"To find Snow and a little princess," Tristan answered.


	13. The Prince of Dorne

**THE PRINCE OF DORNE**

His vision was blurry, but this was not the time to shed tears.

"You are certain of these reports?" Prince Doran asked, looking up from the parchments in his hands.

"As certain as we can be, my lord," Maester Caleotte replied quietly. It seemed as though each day brought a new raven, sometimes two, three, or even four. Dark wings, dark words, all of them. None of the news that had reached Doran Martell's court in Sunspear was good for the Dornish court. Rhaegar had been defeated on the Trident. Prince Lewyn had been slain, trying to protect the prince. Rhaegar himself had fallen to Robert Baratheon's hammer. Doran bore the prince no love for his treatment of Elia, openly spurning her in favor of some northern girl with no courtly manners, but Elia and the children had been safe with him. Now…

The last rays of the afternoon sun played through the glass dome of the Tower of the Sun, turning the pale marble floors of the throne room into a rainbow of colors. Beside him, the Sun Seat remained empty, its Rhoynish sigil resplendent in gold and ivory. Doran slumped back in the Spear Seat, looking at the tiny audience assembled in the massive, round room. Behind him, as ever, Areo Hotah stood still as a statue, his hands resting on the head of his longaxe.

"Elia and Aegon, murdered," Doran said. It was still nearly impossible to digest. The invading army could have taken them prisoner, sent Elia and her children to Dorne…

Doran looked to his younger brother. Prince Oberyn Martell had been far closer to their sister than Doran; they were almost the same age, where the Prince of Dorne was nearly a decade older. When they were playing innocent games together in the Water Gardens, he was being groomed for the position he would inevitably inherit. There were no tears in the younger prince's eyes, but even from a dozen paces away he could feel the rage simmering just below his regal armor.

"From what we understand," Maester Caleotte confirmed. "The Lannisters and their bannermen stormed the city and sacked it within a night. Aerys II was killed by his own Kingsguard."

"Jaime Lannister," Oberyn growled. He had read the reports, then. "The arrogant bastard has no honor."

"He was not made Kingsguard for his honor," Doran said. "He was made Kingsguard to spite the Hand."

"A Lannister always pays his debts," Caleotte remarked quietly.

"Debts?" Oberyn repeated. "His debt was with the king, not with Elia or the children! Call the spears, Doran! We must march immediately!"

"The spears are already called," Doran reminded his brother. "They are in the field, exhausted and defeated at the Trident, our uncle dead with them."

"We have more than ten thousand soldiers!" Oberyn railed. "I will lead them myself, through the Prince's Pass and the Reach, all the way to King's Landing! Our forces from the Trident can join us easily!"

"This war is lost," Doran said. He looked through the parchments, searching for some shred of good news.

"We declare for Viserys and force the Tyrells to continue their siege!" Oberyn countered. "This war is not over while a Targaryen still lives! I will not let Elia's death go unavenged!"

Doran read the message again. Lannisters had presented the bodies of Elia and Aegon to Robert Baratheon and Jon Arryn when they had finally entered the city…

"We cannot sit idly for this!" Oberyn continued. "We sail to Dragonstone and bring the boy back here. No one has ever-"

Doran held up a hand for silence.

"There is no mention of Rhaenys."

"I beg your pardon?" Maester Caleotte asked, looking up from his rather round belly. Doran's gaze went from the parchment to his maester.

"The letter states that the bodies of Aegon Targaryen and Elia Martell were presented to the victors upon their arrival at the Red Keep," Doran reiterated. "There is no mention of Rhaenys." He paused. "Who sent these messages?"

"I…" Caleotte hesitated a long moment. "I do not know. They were sealed with red wax, but held no embossment."

"What does this mean?" Oberyn asked.

"It may mean nothing," Doran replied. "Or it may mean that little Rhaenys is still alive. We need to know who sent these, and find out what has happened to our niece."

"Queen Rhaella and Prince Viserys escaped to Dragonstone, only a night before the city was sacked," Maester Caleotte noted. "Perhaps she traveled with the queen?"

"Why not mention that, if she had?" Doran inquired. "It seems a rather sizable omission."

"Does it matter?" Oberyn interjected. "If she is alive, that is all the more reason for us to march!"

"It is all the more reason for us to take pause," Doran corrected him. "If Rhaenys is alive, and being held in the Red Keep, do you think you will be able to breach King's Landing before she is put to death?"

"And if she is alive, but they do not hold her?" Oberyn countered. "Would you let her hide, alone, while you wait and _think_? I will find her myself, if need be!"

"You have already volunteered to lead an army through the Reach and sail to Dragonstone," Doran said, a trace of a smile tugging at his lips. "I think finding Rhaenys as well will tax even you."

"Your pathetic japes are not wanted here," Oberyn snarled. "Rhaenys is missing, Aegon and Elia butchered, and you wish to _joke_?"

Doran sighed. As always, Oberyn missed the reason behind the jape.

"We can do nothing until we know more," the prince stated. "If Rhaenys is alive, making war throughout the Crownlands will not help her. If she… does not live, we must face the reality of the situation. Continuing this war will only cost us in both blood and gold."

"You are not seriously considering peace?" Oberyn asked. "You would bend the knee to the butcher that killed Elia?"

"I would pause until we know more," Doran countered, an edge coming to his voice. "Vengeance will not help Rhaenys. It can only harm her. Maester Caleotte."

"Yes, my lord?"

"Can you contact this messenger?" Doran asked. Caleotte tugged at the chain around his pudgy neck.

"It would be difficult," Caleotte answered cautiously. "He has sent no seal, and a raven sent to King's Landing will go to the rookery in the Red Keep. If our enemies hold the keep…"

"I see," Doran said. "Then send no messages. If Rhaenys has somehow been overlooked, we do not wish to alert the Lannisters or the Usurper to our knowledge. Keep watch for ravens, and bring me any messages, no matter what time, and no matter how insignificant they may seem."

"Yes my lord," Caleotte said. Doran turned to his younger brother.

"Oberyn."  
"Yes." The word came out as a hiss.

"I know you wish to find Rhaenys, and avenge Elia and Aegon," Doran said. "As do I. But we must wait."

"That is your way," Oberyn stated. Without another word he turned on his heel and stalked out of the throne room, the many hues of the dome's glass panes playing across his gleaming armor. Doran watched him until he disappeared through the wide doors of the throne room. Finally, he looked back over his shoulder. Areo Hotah barely moved, turning his head only slightly towards him.

"Look after him," the prince said. "He was very close with Elia. But there is nothing we can do, for now."

"As you will," Areo Hotah said. The guard captain moved quietly past the Spear Seat to follow the younger prince. With the others gone, Doran turned back to Caleotte.

"Any news," he said. "Bring it to me, and me alone."

"As you wish, my lord," the maester said. The round little man turned and hurried through the doors, leaving Doran alone in the throne room.

It was only then that Doran allowed himself to cry for the sister and the nephew he had lost, and for the niece that may already have been killed. Even then he wept in silence, and only allowed himself a short time to grieve.

It would be hours before he would hear of anything else, that much was certain. Doran found himself grateful that Mellario had taken Arianne and Quentyn to the Water Gardens; he had no desire to tell his children that their cousins had been slaughtered and their great-uncle was dead. Descending through the Tower of the Sun to his personal chambers, the prince tried to sort fact from fiction. He spent the time pacing, pondering. Why mention Aegon and Elia, but not Rhaenys at all? Who had sent the messages, and had he sent them anywhere else? The questions were vexing, leaving nothing but more questions in their wake. If Rhaenys was still alive, was she in danger? Would she ever be able to live without fear of being hunted? Who ruled now in King's Landing?

As the light faded outside his tall windows, Doran sank down into his bed. Mellario's absence was both a comfort and a burden at once; she had not taken to Dornish customs after all these years and railed against the glaring sun, but he still loved her more than enough to miss her as the sun and temperature both dropped. It seemed to take forever for the prince to find sleep, his dreams plagued with half formed images of Rhaenys being hunted through King's Landing or slain in her mother's arms.

A knock at the door woke him.

He had no idea how long he had slept, but it was still dark as he opened his eyes. He had fallen asleep in his court clothes. Doran slowly stood, his knees still bothering him, and padded to the door.

"My lord," Maester Caleotte said. "A message."

"At this hour?" Prince Doran said, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

"You told me to bring any message, no matter the time," Caleotte reminded him.

"My mistake," Doran said, trying humor. It fell flat, as it so often did. "Bring it inside and light a taper, Caleotte."

"As you wish," the maester said. Doran stepped aside, and the round little man entered the room quickly, striking a spark and lighting a candle on Doran's desk. Then he handed the message to the prince.

"Arryn's seal," he said, recognizing the falcon pressed into the sky blue wax. Slowly he broke the seal and unfolded the parchment. Maester Caleotte stood by, waiting, as the prince read. "Robert Baratheon is the new king," the prince finally said, turning to his maester. "Eddard Stark has marched on to Storm's End, to break the siege there. Lord Arryn holds no grudge with us, but says we must withdraw our spears to the marches and swear fealty to the new king."

"Any word of Rhaenys?" Caleotte asked.

"None," Doran answered with a shake of his head. "No mention of any Targaryens. Just that we must bend the knee to our new king."

"Will he see Rhaenys as a threat?" the maester asked. Doran looked to him.

"He'll need her found and exiled, at least," the prince decided. "At worst…"

"He'll need to kill her, and the other Targaryens," Maester Caleotte finished. Doran nodded.

"We have to find her," the prince said simply.


	14. The Usurper's Hand 2

**THE USURPER'S HAND**

"This is where they stashed you away."

"All things considered, I have slept in worse places," Lord Varys said. He sat on the center of his pallet, eyes closed and a placid smile on his face.

"I am certain," Jon Arryn said, looking into the cell where the former Master of Whisperers was kept. Varys had surrendered without a fight, and more importantly, to Stark soldiers rather than Lannisters. Without any open reason to kill him, they were forced to bring the eunuch to the dungeon of the Red Keep, where he was held in cells that were normally reserved for trueborn nobles.

"I am pleased to think that you thought to visit me in my captivity," Varys said, finally opening his eyes and turning to his guest. Jon shifted uncomfortably. This man appeared complacent and even friendly, but he had been one of the Mad King's most loyal servants. "I must thank you for these accommodations as well, my Lord Hand. I thought I would have been left to rot in the common cells above. At least this way I have some small measure of privacy."

"And comfort," Jon noted. Varys' robes were of deepest vermilion silk, and the sweet fragrance of lilacs drifted out from his cell. The pallet had been covered with a soft duvet, and a small shelf even held a handful of books for his diversion. "You still have friends here, it would seem."

"A few coins can bring the rudiments of comfort to a noble cell," Varys explained. He stood from his bed, his soft slippered feet gliding across the floor with barely a whisper. "But I do not think that you have come here to discuss the finer points of my captivity."

"No," Jon acknowledged. He paused, looked around the cell, then around the torchlit hall of the dungeon. "You served King Aerys for some time."

"This is true," Varys said. "I can only hope that my service was deemed worthwhile."

"He brought you here," Jon continued. Varys nodded.

"Also true."

"You were Aerys' man," Jon concluded.

"I am for the realm," the eunuch corrected him, his voice tranquil. "Now Robert Baratheon is the realm, and so I am for him."

"I want to believe you," Jon said, eyeing the eunuch once more. There was nothing to read in that serene visage.

"You do as you must, Lord Hand," Varys said. Jon shifted uneasily; the eunuch was impossible to grip. He took a step back, scratched at the stubble of gray and black forming on his chin, trying once more to read the man behind bars. "You seem unwell, Lord Hand. Are you in good health?"

"Princess Rhaenys escaped the Red Keep during the sacking," Jon said, watching the prisoner closely.

"That is indeed fortunate," Varys said. There was no surprise, no joy, no disappointment… nothing. Just that infuriating tranquil smile. "For her, at any rate."

"Queen Rhaella escaped to Dragonstone with Prince Viserys," Jon added.

"I was aware of that," Varys said.

"You sent them there." It was not a question. Varys shrugged.

"Battle is always a fickle thing," the eunuch said. "When we heard nothing for so long, I decided not to risk them any further. The king still clung to Elia, though. Leverage against Dorne, and his own son, if truth be told."

"You knew the king was mad," Jon concluded.

"I did," Varys admitted. "But he was my king. Honor dictated that I serve him."

"And now?" Jon asked.

"As I said, I am a man for the realm," Varys answered smoothly. "Robert is the king. Therefore, I am his man."

Jon paused a long moment.

"I need someone to find Princess Rhaenys," the King's Hand said. "I need to find her before… other people can."

"But I am locked away in here," Varys noted. "How could I hear my little birds sing of your lost princess? Without even a window?"

"You will be reinstated as Master of Whisperers," Jon explained. "I will speak to King Robert and assure him of your loyalty to the crown rather than the man."

"That is most kind of you," Varys said, smiling as he put his hands together and bowed his head. _Damn him_, Jon thought, _he knew the whole time what was to happen_. For a moment the King's Hand wondered how much of the escape might have been orchestrated by the eunuch, but he had come too far to turn back now.

The climb out of the dungeon took far more time than the descent. Each step brought him more doubts. Would Varys help, or would he turn on the new king and help Rhaenys? Would he slip away to Dragonstone at the first opportunity? Would he try to remove Robert from the throne? Would he be an even worse foe than the Lannisters were already proving? If he knew where Lyanna Stark was, would he part with the information? He had too many questions, and too few answers.

Jon Arryn's trek from the Holdfast to the Tower of the Hand was as arduous as the steps from the dungeon. He was getting old, of that there was no doubt. His legs ached as he wound his way up the serpentine stair and across the courtyard to the Tower of the Hand. For a week he had tried to make the tower his home, but it was not the Eyrie. This would offer no expansive view from a perch atop the Giant's Lance, and good men of the Vale were in terribly short supply in King's Landing.

Four guards stood at the entrance to the Tower of the Hand, all dressed in the sky blue and white of House Arryn. The sight of his own men gave the King's Hand some small comfort; at least he was not totally alone in the Red Keep. As they saw him, they stiffened to attention.

"Lord Hand," the lead guard said. Jon nodded.

"Everything is quiet, Jordy?" Jon inquired. The guard nodded. "Good. With a little luck, things will be quieting down."

The King's Hand passed his guards and entered his own tower, walking through the great hall of the first floor. More steps loomed before him, twisting up the side of the tower. With a sigh of resignation Jon began the long climb, his knees beginning to ache after the first two score. After four score, he stopped to rest, looking out the window. There was no more smoke in the sky, not after a week, but a breeze from the city still brought the smell of charcoal to his window. Closing his eyes and steeling his will, Jon resumed the climb.

Forty more steps brought him to his own private chambers. Down a short hall, past two more guards, and finally, peace within his new home.

"I thought you would never return, Jon."

"Lysa?" Jon asked, stunned by the voice. The dim room hid her only a moment more before he found her, sitting by a long dressing table in a simple gown of House Arryn blue. She was a beauty, shy and slim, but at less than half his age he barely knew how to approach her. "I… thought you'd be at the Eyrie."

"I left soon after news of the victory at the Trident reached us," Lysa explained, standing. "After all, if my husband is Hand of the King, should his loyal wife not be with him? At least some of the time?"

"Thank you, Lysa," Jon said, trying a smile. It turned into a wince instead.

"Your teeth?" Lysa assumed. A trace of her warmth disappeared.

"It… is nothing," Jon lied. He had lost several teeth already, something that had not endeared him to the young beauty. "The hour is late, sweetling. Perhaps we should to bed?"

"You seem tense," Lysa said. Jon nodded wearily.

"There is so much to do," he explained. "So many positions to fill. We barely even have a Small Council, and I shall be happier once Lord Tywin is not a part of it."

"Being King's Hand sounds like difficult work," Lysa said. Jon sat down on the bed, and his young wife moved behind him. Gently she began to rub his shoulders. Even without his armor the days seemed to take their toll on him, and Lysa's tender massage felt wonderful.

"It is. I would be glad for some help, and also your company."

"Help," Lysa said, leaning closer in behind him. He could feel her lips just brushing his ear. "I might be able to find someone to help you."

"Really?" Jon asked.

"Petyr Baelish has an exceptionally keen mind," Lysa observed. Jon sat up straight. Then he stood. Lysa leaned back on the bed, a look of surprise on her face.

"Petyr Baelish?" he repeated.

"I know he is young-"

"He is fifteen." Jon cut her off. He turned back to look at her. "Isn't he the one that dueled Brandon Stark?"

"Does that matter?" Lysa asked, crossing her arms across her chest. Her mouth pinched.

"It was dishonorable," Jon said. "Your sister was already betrothed to Brandon when-"

"What does it matter?" Lysa interrupted, throwing her hands up in frustration. "He is smart, he can be of use!"

"And what did he contribute during the rebellion?" Jon asked. "What did the Baelishes offer when I called my banners?"

"They had nothing to give!" Lysa countered. "They sit out on the Fingers, a few acres of rock stuck into the ocean, and you want… what, exactly? You gave them nothing, so they have nothing to give!"

"Many of my other bannermen gave far more to me when I called my banners," Jon protested. "It is those men that should be given the honor of high station. They have earned it!"

"Fine," Lysa said, throwing up her hands. She climbed down off the bed, striding back over to the dressing table. "Ignore his worth. Ignore his cunning and his intellect. Pick Ser Lyn Corbray. Wasn't he the one that fought you at Gulltown and then switched sides? That is honor, I'm certain."

"He is fifteen," Jon repeated. The sound that escaped Lysa's lips was something akin to a growl.

"He is fifteen, he is fifteen!" she mocked, her voice a high falsetto. "I must be a stupid little girl then, since I'm only seventeen, is that it? Good for nothing more than sealing an alliance with my father? Maybe to give you a few heirs? I guess without me, you wouldn't have won your little war, either! Maybe I should have the honor of some position! Maybe Master of Laws!"

"Enough, Lysa!" Jon roared. His hands balled into fists without him even realizing it. Anyone, anyone but Petyr Baelish! He was young, untried, and he had disgraced himself attempting to duel for the hand of a Lord Paramount! The King's Hand stopped, taking a deep breath to steady himself. "I am going to sleep, Lysa," he said. "I have many long days ahead of me. You _will_ give me the chance to rest."

Lysa huffed, kicked a stool out, and sat down to brush her hair out with short, harsh strokes. Slowly Jon began to undress. As he did so, he suddenly found himself wishing that he had not won the war.

It would have been more peaceful that way.


	15. Taillefer 4

**TAILLEFER**

The screams shattered his dreamless sleep.

Taillefer stumbled, stood, felt the pain in his side, and fell to his knees. Pain tugged at his side where his stitches strained. In the dark he groped for a weapon, but there was nothing to be found.

"What? What is it?" Taillefer called, trying to establish himself in a time or place. He pulled himself back to his feet again, barely balanced against what he assumed was the pallet. "Jocelyn? Rhaenys?"

The screaming cut off anything else, but it told him where Rhaenys was. He stumbled, half fell and half threw himself towards her, ready to protect her with his bare hands if need be.

"Taillefer!" Jocelyn exclaimed. She was hardly alarmed; she sounded more… angry?

"What's going on?" the bastard demanded. Rhaenys was gasping for breath. He could just barely make her out in a half shaft of moonlight, clutching tightly to Jocelyn's side.

"She's scared," Jocelyn said.

"The bad man!" Rhaenys cried. Her screams were devolving into sobs. Jocelyn wrapped her arms around the little girl, pulling her close. Taillefer let out a sigh. "The bad man!"

"It's okay, honey," Jocelyn whispered, holding her close. "The bad man is gone. You're safe now."

"I want my mommy," Rhaenys sobbed. There was a long pause from Jocelyn. "Where is mommy?"

"Mommy's… not here," Jocelyn said, a hitch to her voice. She hesitated. "It's okay. Uncle Taillefer will protect you."

"Me?" Taillefer asked. Jocelyn looked up to him, a mixture of irritation and humor on her face.

"You raced over here so quickly you kicked me in the ribs," the young noble pointed out. She found his hand in the darkness and gently tugged him down. "Sit with us, Taillefer. Please."

Taillefer resisted a moment, more, but it was no use. He couldn't see her eyes, but he could picture them easily enough in his mind. Bright, burnished gold, all warmth and care for him. Slowly he sank down next to her. He dabbed at his side with one hand. The bandage still seemed dry, but the pain in his side seemed more pronounced. Maybe it was just the sudden movement.

Rhaenys burrowed between the two of them before he could say a word of the ache, or loss of sleep, or his reluctance to be a father. She was shivering as she forced herself under his arm, terrified. Had she seen Lorch in her nightmare? Had Jocelyn dealt with this while he swam in milk of the poppy and dreamwine? She pushed harder, forcing him back into the corner of the little cabin, her little sobs soaking the opposite side of his shirt.

Slowly he lowered his arm around her, pulling her closer.

Jocelyn left them for a moment. Taillefer almost said something, but the little princess at his side pulled herself closer into him, her tiny fingers even grasping at the edge of his wound. Stifling down a groan of pain, he was relieved when Jocelyn returned a moment later, draping the thin blankets of his pallet across them. Then she pulled herself as close to the bastard as she could manage, sheltering Rhaenys between them. A few awkward shuffles allowed Taillefer to let them both lean against him and put his back to the wall for support. In the darkness, Jocelyn kissed him lightly on the cheek before snuggling up against him. It took only a short while before Rhaenys' squirming and crying devolved into an uneasy sleep. Taillefer shifted uncomfortably, trying to find a position that put less of a strain on his back or his injury.

"I wish I could fall asleep like that," Jocelyn whispered, her head on Taillefer's shoulder.

"You did," Taillefer said. "At Highgarden. Remember?"

"Why, Taillefer Snow, I don't know what you're talking about," Jocelyn said, her voice light.

"You snore," Taillefer informed her.

"I do not!" Jocelyn countered. She even took a playful swipe at him in the darkness.

"You'll wake her," Taillefer warned. Jocelyn giggled as she pulled herself closer.

"Good night, my bastard," she said, kissing him again. This time her lips brushed against his. Taillefer shifted, trying to get an arm around her as well as Rhaenys.

"Good night," he whispered. Despite the ache in his side and the pressure of the two nobles against his chest, Taillefer found himself fading back into sleep.

It felt as though he had just fallen asleep when he was being shaken awake again.

"Uncle Taillefer," a little voice said, "the sun is awake!"

"I'm not," Taillefer mumbled. He was exhausted and his side ached, but the imp that was tormenting him would not leave him alone.

"The sun is awake!" she insisted. She was crawling on him, pulling herself up on his shoulder as her little knees began to grind painfully into his thigh

"Seven hells!" Taillefer exclaimed, shoving the little girl off of his leg. "I'm awake! I'm awake!"

"Taillefer!" Jocelyn said. Her tone was harsh. He opened his eyes to see her coming quickly to Rhaenys' side. "She's a child!"

Taillefer looked at the little girl. Rhaenys' big, purple eyes were filling with tears. A tiny sob escaped her lips.

"I… I'm sorry," Taillefer fumbled. "I… didn't mean to be so harsh. But you were hurting my leg. You… you just have to be more careful, okay? I'm not angry with you, you… um… just hurt me, is all."

"It's okay, honey," Jocelyn said, hugging the little princess to her. Pirates, knights, slavers… give him anything but a child to contend with. A single, large tear spilled down Rhaenys' cheek. "Uncle Taillefer didn't mean to be mean to you."

Rhaenys nodded. Thankfully, she did not burst into sobs.

"I'm sorry, Uncle Taillefer," Rhaenys squeaked.

"It's okay," Taillefer said. The words felt awkward. "Just… be more careful, okay?"

"Okay," Rhaenys said. She left Jocelyn and caught the bastard in a hug before he could retreat. He winced as her little fingers somehow managed to find the bandages covering his side, but he bit back any retort under a warning glare from Jocelyn. The child was certain to kill him with affection. Finally she released him, hurrying back to Jocelyn as though she had not just been on the verge of tears.

"Can we go outside today?" she asked eagerly. "I want to see the sun today. Can we go outside?"

"I… not… not today," Jocelyn faltered. She looked helplessly to Taillefer. "I… uh…"

"Maybe in a little bit," Taillefer said. He needed to go above decks anyway; he could possibly see about a time when fewer people would notice the little princess. "I… have to go out, anyway."

"Taillefer?" Jocelyn asked. Taillefer looked back to her as she picked up a wooden pot. "Could you… get rid of this?"

Taillefer took it gingerly, not wanting to splash its contents.

"Open the door wide," Taillefer said. "It stinks in here. But stay inside, for now."

Jocelyn nodded, looking almost relieved.

"Can we play?" Rhaenys asked. "Can we play come-into-my-castle?"

"We can play whatever you like," Jocelyn said. Taillefer had just pushed the door open, turning back suddenly.

"No!" he exclaimed. Jocelyn turned on him in shock. "No," he said, calmer. "That's a noble's game. You're not a noble, remember?"

"I'm a princess," Rhaenys protested. "I want to play come-into-my-castle!"

"You can't play that, or you have to keep the door closed," Taillefer said. Rhaenys crossed her arms over her chest, a hilarious scowl on her face.

"Rhaenys, honey, we can't play that right now," Jocelyn tried. "Do you want to work on your doll?"

"Mommy had better dolls for me," the little princess pouted. "I want my good dolly."

Taillefer could take no more. He took the makeshift chamber pot and escaped into the blinding light above decks. At least he left the door open.

The bastard staggered to the railing of the ship, tossing the contents of the chamber pot overboard before making his own water. The strong breeze whipping across the deck was a welcome change to the stagnant, still air inside the tiny cabin. Taillefer took a long moment to savor the fresh air and the lack of a complaining child, closing his eyes against the painful brightness of the sun shining off the waves.

"Choppy seas," Varro's voice said from behind him. The bastard turned to see the barber ambling up to the gunwales. "There'll be a storm soon."

"There aren't any clouds in the sky," Taillefer observed.

"The winds will bring them, soon enough," Varro promised. "Sure as they slow our voyage. How is your side?"

"Stings like the hells," Taillefer answered. Varro nodded.

"We will check it, then," the barber said, gesturing to the railing. "Sit back. It will be nice to examine the wound in the light for once."

Taillefer sank down against the railing, pulling his shirt over his head. Varro knelt next to him, carefully unwinding the linen from his side. Blood still stained the bandages, but not as much as he would have expected. Where the stitches bound him together, the flesh was still red.

"Some minor festering," Varro noted. "It should not be too serious. I will bring salve for it, and wrap it with fresh dressings. That should help. In only a couple more days, we will remove your stitches. You will still need rest after that, to ensure the skin has knitted together, but the worst is behind you."

"That remains to be seen," Taillefer muttered. Varro looked up at that. "How much longer until we reach port?" he asked.

"We will likely reach Tyrosh tomorrow, the following morning at the latest," Varro answered. "Headwinds and pirates have cost us some time. From there, it will be back to Lys."

"Perhaps you could take the stitches out tonight," Taillefer suggested. Varro turned a quizzical gaze on the bastard.

"Oh?" he said. "Are you planning on leaving so soon?"

"I've always wanted to see Tyrosh," Taillefer said. "And to have it right here in front of me…"

Varro laughed.

"Sellswords and bed slaves, I'm certain that has always been your heart's desire," the barber jested.

"Well, maybe not the sellswords," Taillefer corrected him. The bastard studied the man's red hair and chinstrap beard. "You're from Tyrosh, aren't you?"

"Colored hair is a common thing among the Free Cities," Varro told him. "But, yes. I am Tyroshi."

"Tell me a little of your city," Taillefer said. Varro gave a skeptical smile.

"It is a city that will not do well by those who come penniless," the barber warned him. "It is a big city, full of merchants and sellswords, nobility of all sorts and the slaves that make their lives lavish. Be wary, or your women will become bed slaves themselves, while you… you may last a day as a pit fighter, or perhaps find your way into some lord's service and live out your life at his beck and call. Come to Lys with us. This is no place for a person with no friends."

"I'm sure I'll make some friends, even in Tyrosh," Taillefer assured him. "After all, I'm a bastard. Born of deceit and treachery. I should be right at home there."

Varro smirked at the description.

"In the city, there is a large fountain known as the Fountain of the Drunken God," the barber said. "Nearby is the Inn of the Swaying Lanterns. The owner is a man named Rovigo. Tell him my name. It will likely not get you much, but it will at least give you someone to turn to if times become too rough for you."

Taillefer studied him for a long moment.

"That is generous of you," the bastard said. "But why should you have such an interest in seeing me avoid the pitfalls of Tyrosh?"

Varro's smirk faded away. He took a moment before answering.

"Because she's just a child," the barber answered. He had turned utterly serious. "No matter who her parents were, she is still just a child."

"We are her parents," Taillefer said smoothly. That brought the smirk back to his face.

"Of course you are," Varro agreed. He stood, looking out over the water for a moment. "Good luck to you. I'll bring salve and fresh bandages. Let the wound breathe for the time being. And we'll see about your stitches a little later on."

"Varro," Taillefer called after the barber. Varro turned back to him. "How do I know you're not trying to trap me?"

"Because you're an innkeeper," the Tyroshi answered. "Why would I want to trap an innkeeper?"


	16. Tristan 3

**TRISTAN**

_ Dearest Ashara,_

_ I am sorry for not having sent correspondence sooner. In the wake of the victories at the Trident and in King's Landing, the family has demanded much of me, which has kept me from returning to Casterly Rock and your warm embrace. All I do, I do to bring peace to the realm, that we and our children may not endure the war any longer._

_ I will be leaving King's Landing once I send this letter, in order to attend to business of the family and the new king. It is possible that my journeys will take me south. Our child should also know that his blood is the blood of Arthur Dayne as well as the vaunted lineage of the Lannisters. Travel to Lannisport, and from there secure passage to Starfall. With good fortune, I shall find you there soon._

_ All my love, Your Brash Lion_

He looked over the letter once more, then carefully folded it and dripped crimson wax on the parchment.

"Will you be needing anything else, young Tristan?" Grand Maester Pycelle inquired. Tristan pressed the lion's seal of House Lannister into the hardening wax.

"No," the knight replied. He handed the parchment over to the Grand Maester. "Thank you for your help. It is past time I let my wife know that I survived the war."

"There are times when I feel my vows have saved me more trouble than they created," the Grand Maester said with a crooked smile. He took the parchment, examining the seal. "Women are ever fickle."

"She might have a right, if she fears me dead," Tristan said. "See that the letter goes out."

"Of course, of course," Pycelle said. He shuffled up the steps from his rooms to the rookery, glancing back over his shoulder. "I will send it this very moment," he assured the young knight. "Do not worry, with favorable winds your lady wife will hear of your survival in only a few days."

Tristan hesitated a moment longer as the maester disappeared up into the rookery, then turned to the door. Outside, the sun was blindingly bright but held little warmth. Not a cloud marred the horizon.

"Done with your letters?" Amory Lorch asked, standing by the dry moat of Maegor's Holdfast. Behind him, the newest member of the Kingsguard, Ser Mandon Moore, stood halfway back on the Holdfast's drawbridge; the king's personal guard finally had enough members to once again staff that post.

"I am," Tristan answered curtly. Lorch smiled and turned to the serpentine stair.

"Your man Axell has sent word," the manticore knight said. "He wants us to meet him at the River Gate."

Tristan nodded and followed his subordinate to the stables. Taking the reins of his mare from the stable boy, he pulled himself up easily into the saddle and started out of the Red Keep after Lorch, pulling side by side as the two took the slope down Aegon's Hill.

"So how fares the Lady Ashara?" Amory inquired, navigating through the crowded streets. King's Landing had largely returned to normal since the sacking, and the common folk were clogging the streets once more.

"She is in fine health," Tristan answered. He slowed to allow an older man to scurry out from under his horse; Lorch simply knocked him aside with his own steed's flank.

"The most beautiful woman in Westeros, it was proclaimed," Amory continued. "I saw her at Harrenhal. Tell me, is she still as beautiful after popping out your heir?"

Tristan said nothing for a long moment. A wagon was partially turned over in the street in front of them; Tristan pulled his horse aside quickly to avoid the tangle, bumping into Amory's steed and sending him reeling into the crowd of smallfolk to his left. As the manticore knight's horse nearly fell, Tristan reined in his mare.

"I apologize," he said, leaning on the pommel of his saddle. "I didn't realize how close we were riding."

Amory glared at him, but said nothing as he righted his horse. The two rode in silence the rest of the way to the River Gate.

Axell was waiting for the pair at the River Gate, standing just inside the city walls. Shanna Blacktyde, tall and slim, her black hair bound under a cloth of emerald and ebony, stood with him, and just behind her a large, square jawed man with a mop of black hair; Borlan Pyke, if he recalled properly, first mate of the _Grim Lady_.

"Ser Tristan," Axell greeted, coming forward as the pair of knights reached the gate. "I think we have found some news for you in regards to your missing friend."

"What is it?" Tristan asked. Axell nodded to the gate.

"Follow," he said. Without waiting the northerner started through the gate.

"Your horses won't be of much use out there," Shanna noted, smirking up at the two knights. Tristan growled, but dismounted and handed his mare over to the guards at the River Gate. Amory followed suit, and the two Westermen and two Ironborn followed their counterpart through the gate.

Outside the walls, the buildings of the fish market crowded along the city and the river alike. Though the Blackwater Rush washed away much of the filth, the smell of nightsoil and stale wine remained, mixed in with the salt of the Blackwater Bay and overpowered by the smells of fish and tar. Beneath it all, a faint trace of ash lingered from the sacking.

Axell led the small group to a battered pot shop just outside the fish market, its unpainted wooden walls threatening to fall in a sudden gust of wind. Axell pushed the burlap flap that posed as a door aside with his stump and entered.

"After you, Ser knight," Shanna offered, a mischievous light in her dark eyes as she gestured to the door. Tristan gave her a momentary glare before entering the common room. With the fire burning in the hearth to warm the pot of brown, it was uncomfortably warm, but the beaten woman seemed not to mind. She was certainly older than Tristan, with a guess of thirty being gracious, but her face had been viciously gashed along the right side and she was missing her ear. As she saw Tristan enter, she shrank away

"He won't harm you, Tameera," Axell said. "This is Ser Tristan Lannister. He's on your side."

"You'll have to forgive her," Shanna said, entering behind Tristan. "She claims her face was the work of a Lannister man."

"She is forgiven," Tristan said quietly. "Why are we here?"

"We sent many stags into the brush," Axell said. "This one came back. Tameera here thinks she might know the people you seek."

"Aye, m'lord," Tameera said, gaining some of her courage. She hesitated. "But… Ser Axell said you'd pay me more, m'lord."

"Did he," Tristan said, looking to the northerner. Axell smiled sweetly.

"Her face was badly cut by a Lannister man," the sellsword noted. "It would only be the right thing to do."

Tristan said nothing. Slowly he withdrew four stags from his pouch, and placed them in a neat stack on the planks that served as a table.

"Thank you, m'lord," Tameera said, falling over herself to praise the knight. "Much thanks to you, m'lord. Now that I recall, maybe it weren't no Lannister man done this to me, but-"

"You are not being paid to tell me about your face," Tristan cut in. Tameera flinched at the sudden edge to his voice.

"Just tell Ser Tristan what you told me," Axell said. Tameera nodded.

"The night of the… the night the Lannister troops freed us from the Mad King, we crowded the docks," Tameera began. "We was looking for a way out, you know, until the fighting died away. And I was on the docks by a Lyseni ship, you know, ones they paint their ships all pretty colors. Was the only one I saw like that, of all the boats. They was taking money and they killed some of us trying to get on, but they let on a girl carrying a blinded child and her husband, he was bleeding so bad from his side. Right here," she said, showing on her own body where the man was cut.

"Amory," Tristan said.

"He's still outside," Shanna informed him.

"Well get him in here," Tristan snapped, his eyes still on the woman. "The little girl, she was blinded, you said?"

"Her head was all wrapped in bloody bandages," Tameera explained. "But the girl, she weren't no one around here. She was cut on her arm and her sleeve was missing, but she was dressed real fine, and the man, he carried a real good sword, not like the ones you see on the sailors."

"A fine blade," Tristan said.

"Yes," she said. "Had a black hilt and pretty black stone in the pommel. Weren't no one round here can afford that. He gave it away to get him and the others on the boat."

"The girl," Tristan said, "she was dressed in green and white?"

"Yes," Tameera answered. "I think."

"What was the name of the ship?" Tristan asked.

"You wanted me?" Amory asked behind him. Tristan held up a hand.

"They only come in like a night or two before," Tameera said. "But they had a few of them sailors come in here. It was called _Merry Milena_."

Tristan turned back to Amory.

"You cut Snow on the right?" he demanded. Amory thought for a second, and nodded. "We know their ship. Thank you, Tameera."

"Thank you, m'lord!" Tameera called out. But Tristan had already ducked out of the disgusting pot shop, on his way to the harbormaster.


End file.
